Twentieth Century Legend
by The Otherworlder
Summary: They are beautiful, powerful, divine warriors of mythical stature. Yet they too have known the world of men and seen its history. Here is the tale of how the gold saints braved Cold War, revolutions, genocides and the rest of twentiteth century's turmoil.
1. Wall

1961, Berlin

This doesn't feel right, Lorenz thought. Did the S-bahn always look this menacing?

Black road behind him, grey buildings before him, somehow divided by an invisible threshold beneath his feet. An engine rumbled; a fully loaded bus beeped its horn once and departed. Crossing over. Never to return.

It must be the rain in the air. Lorenz shook his head clear of foreboding thoughts and looked up at the sky. All white and bleak, expressionless.

Swannhild was fixing his collar. "I think I see another bus coming." She said, looking over his shoulder. "You should try getting on this one. It's nearly empty and not many people are still waiting."

Lorenz stared at her a little too intently. "I don't want to go." He declared like a petulant child.

Swannhild froze for a moment, then sighed, "Don't be stubborn. You need the rest, and you need something good to eat, which you certainly won't get in this half of the city. Besides, you haven't visited your parents and your brother for a long time now."

"And you, Saga?" Not waiting for a response from Lorenz, she bent down and patted her son's small head. "Sure you want to visit Gran's place? Gran will make her famous stew, you know, real bacon bits with giant dollops of sour cream."

The small boy shook his head. " 'M not going."

"But Kanon is going."

"To keep Papa safe, of course. But I have to stay, or Mama you will be lonely."

"Why would I be lonely?" Swannhild teased with a forced smile. "I shall catch a picture show every night."

"Like the red posters on street corners, Mama? You certainly won't be seeing other pictures now." Kanon suddenly said.

Swannhild stared. The ironic gleam in the child's eyes reflected on her face. Everyone was still.

The bus came near and beeped its horn. The spell broke.

"Take good care of Papa, Kanon. Make him rest." Saga said, voice very serious.

"Right."

Doors opened. Doors closed. Exhaust pipe coughed. And the parting was final.

"They are closing the border!"

What? Lorenz opened his eyes. Still dark outside. The bedroom window was half open, bringing in a chill. Sounds, now high, now low, now rising, now falling, flew in.

"_Sie schließen den Rand!"_

They are closing the border.

Border. Closing.

Swannhild! Saga! My little darling, my son!

He jumped up, pushed open the bedroom door. Outside, his brother held a struggling Kanon.

"Calm down, Lorenz, calm down!"

Lorenz was deaf. He flew by without a sideway glance. Out the door, down the stairs, along the street, into the chaos like a moth to the flame. People everywhere about him, questioning, crying, shouting. The air smelt of salt of tears and cinder of rage. Lorenz heeded nothing; he raced onward with vengeance. Onward, onward, onward.

At the end of the street, the threshold. It was always there, but now it simply _was_. Tall, interminable, a black mesh of thorny wire ends. Behind the threshold stood gun barrels.

What sight!

Blood rushed to Lorenz's head. Inside him everything pounded against each other. He was suddenly short of breath. The black of the threshold compounded in his view. More, and more, and some more.

"Lorenz! _Bruder!_"

"PAPA!"

Someone called? A brief flash of something, then all the world is black.

Swannhild stood beside the kitchen counter and pondered over the last egg: use it now to rise that cake properly, or save it for Lorenz when he comes back from West? A sudden rumble interrupted her thought. Coming storm? She wondered. It was dark outside; the street lights were on.

Rumble grew louder. It was soon deafening. Still holding the egg, Swannhild looked outside. Then she saw it: wide, cold, black, mouth of a gun. The smooth gun barrel followed inch by inch. Then the plated black body. A tank rolled pass her window. The egg dropped from her hand. Saga, who just came into the kitchen, caught the egg half way to the ground and replaced it on the table.

A sudden knock at the door; Frau Wolgen from next-door came in without waiting for a response.

"Have you heard, Swann?"

"Heard? Heard what? What is going on?"

"They are closing the border."

Saga jumped, flailing arm swept over the countertop. The egg he just saved splattered onto the floor. Swannhild looked blank.

"They… they what?"

"They are closing the border. Right now. Awful barbed wire fence they are putting up across the divide. And there are so many soldiers marching around. They say they will shoot anyone who tries to cross."

Swannhild's eyes lost focus. "That… I…. _Oh Lorenz… Kanon!"_

Saga suddenly leaped, darted through the two women and raced out the door.

Outside it was almost light. Beneath the white sky an empty street; only rotting flowers, fading tanks, overwhelming silence. Windows were watchful eyes, framing anxious peering faces. Saga ran as if possessed. He stumbled, a few times, then more. His breath came short; his face was bright red. Then he stumbled again and could not right himself in time. He fell sprawling on the street. His eyes, now turned skyward, saw only white.

"Papa! Kanon!" A sudden, sharp, shrill scream.

Papa…Papa…Papa…

Kanon… Kanon… Kanon…

The echoes whispered back. But a rumble rose and silenced the sweet whispers. Another column of tanks came. Closer, closer still. Saga, lying in the middle of the street, did not move. The first tank stopped a few meters short of Saga. A soldier leaped out of the tank and took Saga in his arms. The child snarled and began to kick. Swannhild came just in time to see Saga struggling in the arms of a tall man. Her heart skipped a beat. A red star gleamed on the man's green cap.

"_Nein! Saga! Helfen sie mir, Herr!" _

She was before the soldier in two steps, arm outstretched and trembling. "Give him to me… please… my child."

The soldier handed Saga to her silently and went back to his tank. He paused before going into the machine and looked at her. In garbled German he spoke.

"_Ich bin traurig."_

I am sorry.

Then he was gone. Tanks rolled on. Silence returned. Sky persistently white.

Friedrichstrasse was a bazaar. Cries, screams, shouts, pleas, flying everywhere.

"Please." Swannhild tried again. "My husband is over there. His parents and brother are there; he is with them. My other son is there too. I should be with them."

"Not according to this." The answer came curtly. "You, your husband and children are all registered as East Berlin citizens. I can't let you pass."

Swannhild was near tears. She stood frozen, unwilling to move. Someone pushed from behind. Ripple of impatient murmuring; Threats in quiet anger. Others too, clamored for a chance to plead their case. Swannhild left the checkpoint booth. Saga held her hand in silence. Swannhild turned and looked west. A field of gold there, cut up into tiny stars by the barbed wire fence. So bright, so pretty.

Slowly Swannhild approached the fence. One small step, then another. She touched the fence. Shivering touch turned to choking grip. White fingers knotted against the black. Where the black barbs dug into the white, crimson flowed.

"Mama, Mama!" Saga cried softly. "You are hurting yourself. Mama."

Swannhild remained motionless.

"Swannhild, stop it!" Another voice, now fearful

A violent shiver shot through her. Swannhild snapped her head up and looked. A man so alike to her husband stood on the other side of the fence.

"Linz, _mein bruder._" She murmured, a smile slowly surfacing, "I… I am happy to see you."

A pause. "Where is Lorenz?" She shivered again. "Why is he not here?"

"He is not well. Old problem with liver and low blood sugar. Doctor said he must stay in bed and not tire himself."

Swannhild nodded without expression. She looked a statue. Then suddenly she said, "Promise something, _bruder._"

"What, Swann?"

"Don't let Lorenz come back to this side. Keep him. Don't let him come back." Her words raced, faster, faster, out in a tumble, "Tell him that I will come to the west. I will come, no matter what. He will see me again; he will see Saga. Tell him to wait for us." White hands clenched tighter, blood traced red threads on the white.

"Swannhild!" Linz sounded terrified. "Don't do anything rash, Swann!"

"Promise me!" She cried, voice suddenly shrill and fierce.

She released her hold on the fence and left. She tried to hold Saga's hands, but the little boy cradled her bloody hands to his chest instead.

The moon sank low, pale, cold, white. Underneath it, West Berlin dreamed. Swannhild crouched behind a warehouse. One slender hand held Saga, the other clenched a wire cutter in the large overcoat pocket. A stone's throw beyond the warehouse, two parallel fences loomed, black wire, white posts, barbs like flint. Between two fences, a line of cement blocks was already forming. Rolls of barbed wire decorated the ground.

Two soldiers marched. _Tak, tak, tak, _their shoes clicked against the pavement. Moonlight skidded across their gun barrels and the black metal gleamed. Moon sank lower. The soldier paced before the fence. Swannhild was motionless, only her grip slowly tightened. The sky was growing light, and Swannhild was growing desperate.

The two soldiers turned again and marched. _Tak, tak, tak,_ their shoes clicked. They walked more than fifty feet and did not turn. A hundred, and still onward. _Tak, tak, tak, _the soldiers marched onward, their silhouettes becoming smaller and smaller. Swannhild's heart pounded. The sound of clicking shoes dimmed, dimmed some more, then disappeared. An empty field of moonlight washed white lay open before the fence.

"Quickly, Saga!" Swannhild whispered fiercely.

They scurried across the empty street, clambered over rolls of wiring and stacked posts, and stopped in front of the wire fence. Tall it stood, black, all black, a web of death. Swannhild took out the wire cutter from her pocket; hands trembling, she pressed the blade to the fence.

_Snap!_ The first line broke in two. Swannhild's ashen face suddenly went bright red. Blue eyes blazed. Wire cutter opened and closed. Steel flashed splashes of moonlight. The wall was coming undone. Moon sank behind buildings. The east was growing red.

The last row of barbed wire broke. Swannhild frantically pushed the broken wire aside and dragged herself and Saga beyond the first fence. The row of cement blocks between the fences did not yet close completely, for which Swannhild was immensely thankful for. Gripping Saga's hand, she raced across to the second fence.

The sky was now white with the dawning day. From beyond the second fence, two American soldiers on morning patrol approached. When they saw the mother and son, they froze, mouths hanging open in silent exclamation. Swannhild shook like a leaf. Wire cutter shivered in her hands.

The east was a field of glare. Suddenly, forms emerged.

"_Anschlag!" _Stop!

Swannhild ignored it. The forms raced near, guns in hand, black metal burning in morning light. Boots knocked against pavement, a torrent of fate's hammer fall. The soldiers stopped. Their guns were on their shoulders. Safety off, aim, pull trigger.

_Bang!_ The first shot ricocheted off the cement blocks. _Bang!_ The second pierced Swannhild's back between shoulder blades. She went down without another sound. Behind her the sun leaped above the horizon in one bloody bound.

"Mama!" Saga screamed.

The East German soldiers moved forward, young faces now troubled and concerned. The American soldiers set their guns on their shoulders, aiming. They seemed wary. The German soldiers froze. Americans stood rooted. Nothing moved.

"Mama! Please wake up, Mama!" Saga shook his mother. He took her arms and tried to pull her up; he could not move her. He arranged her arms around his tiny shoulders and tried to haul her up. He was too small to see any fruit. Desperately he attempted, again, again, again. Swannhild's form remained immobile.

"Mama!" Saga cried again. He turned, first east, then west. "Help! Please, someone help! Please help mama get up!"

Soldiers on both sides stared motionlessly, guns still clutched tightly. Dead silence; nothing moved.

Saga took the wire cutter and hacked away at the fence with a frightening fervor. "Papa! Kanon! Uncle Linz!" He screamed. "Please! Please come and get mama!"

His child's hands could not close the wire cutter with significant force. The fence shook and rattled, but the wire would not break. A few people now gathered on both sides of the fence, watching with astonishment.

Saga threw down the wire cutter and went back to Swannhild's prone form. Desperately he tried to move her. Nothing; another futile attempt. He went back to the fence. "Please help, please!" Then quietly. "Mama is dying."

A young woman who was watching beyond the second fence suddenly covered her face and began sobbing brokenly. Soon there were tears in every pair of eyes. A young American soldier moved, as if trying to run to the fence. On the other side, the guns went back to sit on the German soldiers' shoulders. The young man was pulled back by his companions. Again nothing moved. The deafening silence was only pierced by soundless sobs.

Saga went back to his unmoving mother one last time. When he came back once more to stand before the black fence he looked calm. The hardness in his eyes could freeze an ocean. Was he indeed a four-year old boy? Quietly be wrapped his small hands around the barbed wire and closed his eyes.

A gold fire leapt behind him, glaring like a second sun. The wire trembled, first faintly, then hummed like distressed machine. The wires glowed red. Saga screamed. The gold fire behind him burned blindingly bright. The fence began to shake down its entire length. Yet it stood. With a pained cry, Saga let go and went down on his knees. He stared at the fence blankly. Mist gathered in his eyes.

"Saga! Saga!" A sudden cry from afar.

Saga's head snapped up.

A child as small as Saga raced forward from beyond the second fence. He stumbled every other step, arms flailing, blue hair flying wildly. Around him a gold fire blazed a trail. He stopped before the fence, right in front of the fence.

"I am here, Saga, _bruder_." He said, wrapping his hands around the fence. "Get up."

Saga climbed up shakily and he too held the fence, his hands right beside his brother's. An mute explosion of gold fire shook the ground. Then the fence began to crumble. Black metal, white wood, grey cement, they turned to dust in the glare. The entire fence shook furiously and began to vanish to nothing piece by piece.

"_Anschlag! Anschlag!"_

Terrified cries. Then shots fired. Not one or two, but a full round of rapid machine gun fire. The bullets never reached Saga. He saw flowing light like a sheet of crystal, then a shower of stardust. A soft hand seemed to close his eyes. His world faded and he fell back soundlessly.

Fresh boiled bacon. Saga noticed the smell. With ample sour cream and eggs. Apple pie, just out of oven.

Saga could feel himself smiling. Eagerly he opened his eyes. Kanon was right in front of him, bowl of stew in one hand, plateful of pie in another.

"I knew that would wake you up!" Kanon said loudly.

Saga took the bowl without a word and stuffed a spoonful of stew in his mouth. "Where is mama?" He mumbled as he tried to swallow in one gulp.

"Still at the hospital." Kanon said. "She is fine, they saved her. She has to stay a little longer in the hospital. Papa and uncle Linz don't trust that she will stay put and rest at home."

Saga gulped down another mouthful of stew. "How did we get here? What happened? Who saved mama?" He shot out the questions.

"Him! He saved us." Kanon motioned with his head.

From behind the door a man emerged. He was exceedingly tall, slender yet radiating strength. His long green hair was like spring leaves, and his deep eyes were ageless. Saga stared at this godly man, stew forgotten.

"_Heil_! And well met, little Saga." The man said with a smile. "My name is Shion and I am most honoured to make your acquaintance."


	2. Weapon Part 1

1962, Havana

Somewhere in their struggle the red button was inevitably pressed. For a while none noticed, until the sound of churning mechanisms filled the air. Outside the window the sun had just risen above the tree line. By the new light they saw a glint of silver and the aerodynamic lines of the missile, now moving. A sheet of white storm clouds was shooting out of the missile's tail.

Inside the room it was silent. Leonardo was lying in a pool of his own blood, dark eyes firmly closed. It was impossible to say whether he still lived. Aiowyn dumbly looked out the window, and then as if her legs would not support her weight any longer, she crumbled right where she stood. She buried her face in her long fingers and cried. Beside her, sitting in a corner and panting like a wounded dog, the CIA rogue laughed manically.

Outside the missile rose, slowly.

The only one left standing in the room was Aioros. He was five years old and he had a bow.

The bow Aioros received for his fifth birthday from the man who had just become his brother-in-law. The bow stood only a little shorter than him. The wooden body shaped like a rolling wave glistened in the morning light, and the dark metal cord looked potent.

Aioros was always a quiet and reserved child, but when he first touched the bow there was a strange, eager light in his blue eyes. It was as if the bow called out to him. "What a beautiful weapon!" He exclaimed in a manner more suitable for a seasoned warrior than for a little American prince that he resembled so immaculately. "Oh Brother Leonardo, may we go outside and try it?"

"Now, little one," Leonardo bent down and looked at the boy in the eyes. "It is indeed a fine weapon. Only those who understand the purpose of weapons can truly possess them. Do you know what weapons are for, little one?"

Aioros shook his head after a long silence, and then like a normal five-years old, he asked with a huff, "Does that mean I can't have the bow?"

"That's not what I mean." There was now a faint smile on Leonardo's dusky face. "You can certainly keep it. But having it is not quite possessing it completely, little one. Why don't you try pulling the bow?"

Aioros wrapped his fingers around the metal cord and pulled. It did not even budge. The child frowned and pulled with all his might. He managed to move the string no more than an inch. "I am not strong enough for it."

Leonardo laughed, a sparkle in his dark eyes. "No no, I wouldn't imagine so. You have some years to grow before you can really use this bow, little one, and you still have to learn the true purpose of weapons. Be patient; when you get there you will see how wonderful it is."

Aioros was still only five years old. He hadn't grow any taller or stronger, but he thought he now understood what Leonardo meant by the "true purpose of weapons". Outside the window a missile armed with nuclear warhead was roaring up the sky. What could a five years old boy do? What could a single arrow do? In fact, what could _anyone _do now?

But children don't question, nor do they apply logic. They scream and kick and flail against adversity with the instinctual tenacity of wild animals. Being the child he was, Aioros clenched his bow tight and leaped out through the window. He ran without hesitation towards the rising missile. It looked like an enormous winged arrow in the sunlight, a glint of silver bursting through the green of forest crown. It could almost be beautiful. Aioros did not know what a continental ballistic missile armed with megaton nuclear warhead means, but he hated it. He knew instinctively that it could crumble everything he had ever loved. It had already turned his sister and Leonardo bitterly, inexorably against each other.

Aioros's sister and Leonardo had a typical Romeo and Juliet love story. Twenty-three years old Aiowyn Demetrio was heiress of the great commercial empire that owned everything from endless stretch of Florida beach with their luxury hotels to the tobacco fields like green seas in Cuba. Aiowyn had known nothing other than beauty, splendour, and class made with endless stream of paper money. The American Princess, they called her in Cuba. And when Leonardo Castille charged down from the mountains of the Caribbean island alongside the famous Che Guevara and Fidel Castro, he wanted to obliterate the Demetrio and the American empire they stood for, not to fall heedlessly in love with the glittering American princess. But falling captive to the grace and spirit of Aiowyn Demetrio was exactly what he had done. And Aiowyn too was madly in love with this tall, wiry, lethal and leopard like Cuban. The fact that he was also an ardent socialist revolutionary meant nothing to her.

Their fates were better than that of Romeo and Juliet, for both were warriors and would let nothing daunt them. Their wedding was well attended by both parties: the Demetrio and their American friends occupying one half of the chapel, in Armani suits and Chanel dresses, decked from crown to toe in shinning stones; the Cubans, including Guevara and Castro, occupied the other half, all dressed in military suits of rough cotton, wearing nothing but gleaming revolvers in leather holsters for decoration. Such was the contrast that the ceremony almost seemed humorous; even the priest looked exasperated.

Aioros, unlike the rest of the Demetrio, did not look on Leonardo askance. He had always loved Leonardo like a brother and was the young couple's staunchest aid during their clandestine courtship. He couriered presents, distracted bodyguards, and covered for missed functions too many times to count. He was the keeper of all their secret joy and sorrow.

So when the new couple planned an excursion into mountains for their honeymoon, away from the glittering wealth and the flaming revolution around them, they did not hesitate to take little Aioros along.

It was perfect. They slept in a log cabin smelling of fresh wood, they swam in mountain pools clear and still like crystal, they hunted wild birds and games now and then for food, and the unconquerable divide of their societies was completely forgotten. It was perfect until that morning when Aiowyn decided to turn on the radio.

"… The rumours of finding Soviet missiles in Cuba did not go unchallenged. Chairman Nikita Khrushchev of USSR again denied all accusations vehemently this morning in his address. However, some remain unconvinced. The French government has been warning the United States about possible nuclear presence in Cuba for many months now, though so far their warning was dismissed as being impossible…"

Aiowyn looked at her husband and asked with a laugh, "I hope I can trust that there are no missiles in Cuba?"

"Of course there isn't." Leonardo replied and turned off the radio before stretching back on his chair.

"I must say, people are becoming too fearful nowadays." Aiowyn remarked. "But still, to believe such a rumour, that seems simply senseless. What good would a few Soviet missiles in Cuba do against the whole American arsenal? The mere presence of weapons exacerbates grievances and ignites conflicts, and only fools take them up unnecessarily. Comrade Castro is many things, but a fool he certainly isn't."

Strangely, Leonardo did not reply, nor did he nod or make any sound of assent. He only eyed Aiowyn with a weary look. His motion seemed stiff, and there was an unreadable light in his dark eyes. What was it? Anger? Guilt? Or sorrow? Though they did not yet know, but that exchange marked the beginning of the swift and irrecoverable unraveling process.

The day later a messenger hunted Leonardo down in their cabin. They had a short conversation off somewhere, and when Leonardo returned he looked grave. "I am sorry, Wyn," He said apologetically. "But there are some problems at the petroleum refinery, and I must go now."

Aiowyn seemed a little reluctant, "The petroleum refinery you manage? But it has been running so smoothly for decades now. I thought they would be fine without you."

"Yes, but some unforeseen situations came up. I need to oversee the refinery now, but not for long, three days at most. Before you realize it, I will be back at the cabin with you." Leonardo promised.

"I can go with you," Aiowyn offered. "I do have a degree in chemical engineering from MIT. I can probably help."

The messenger who was listening to the exchange silently now made a barking sound in his throat, and rolled his eyes ostensibly. Leonardo sighed and said, "I don't think others would think well of your offer."

Aiowyn forced a laugh and said, "Right, I forget myself sometimes."

"Look, Wyn," Leonardo said quietly with a hint of pain in his voice. "You won't be upset about this?"

"Of course not," Aiowyn smiled warmly. "You have responsibilities and obligations that are outside or even against my world, I know that a long time ago. Go now, don't worry about me. Aioros and I will have a grand time here until you get back."

"I am sure you two will enjoy yourselves." Leonardo finally smiled, though the curve of his lips seemed tentative. "And if problems come up, you should be familiar with the way to the refinery from here." Then he went up to Aioros and said, "I am handing my wife to your care. You will protect her, little one?"

Aiowyn laughed and looked amused, but little Aioros replied full of seriousness, "I will protect her, brother Leonardo." And then he lifted the bow and the quiver of arrows in his hand for Leonardo to see.

Leonardo smiled admiringly. "I know you will be her most faithful protector, little one."

No more was said; Leonardo left with the messenger, vanishing into the green depth of the jungle. Aiowyn and Aioros spent three quiet days together. The evening of the third day did not see Leonardo's return, but a storm warning did come.

"…The storm system Elena has now moved to directly above the mountain regions in northern Cuba. Wind will pick up before sunset in said region, and by mid-evening wind level will reach eleven, with a speed of ninety miles per hour. The predicted rainfall is sixty centimeter…"

"Great." Aiowyn groaned. "Come, Aioros, we must leave this cabin. No way will we last this kind of storm here."

"Where are we going then?" Aioros asked as he helped his sister packing a few essential items.

"To Leonardo's petroleum refinery. Hopefully we will get there before it's completely dark." Aiowyn said and slung the packed bag over her shoulder. "Come, let's go."

Aioros nodded and followed, not forgetting to pick up his bow and quiver. Aiowyn looked at him quizzically, "You are taking that too?"

"I can't leave it to the storm," Aioros said gravely. "And I need it to protect you as I promised Brother Leonardo."

Aiowyn laughed and took her little brother's hand in her own and the two set off into the hidden depth of Cuban jungle, hoping to find a shelter from the oncoming storm. God knows they walked right into the storm instead.

When they emerged from the mesh of tropical plants onto the single lane road of pact dirt that led to the petroleum refinery, a colossus of a truck was passing by. The monster machine was painted a deep forest green colour, and the enormous wheels bound with chains vaguely reminded Aiowyn of the all-terrain armoured vehicles that the Demetrio family used to ship between Europe and America during the war years. Around two dozen soldiers stood or sat around the back of the truck beneath the canvas roof. They were all tall and fair, pale haired with eyes deep and burning. They were decked in immaculate green suits, and red stars glowed faintly on their hats. As they passed, they surveyed the sister and brother with ostensible wariness. Aiowyn shuddered at their scorching looks.

Not long after the first truck disappeared in front of them, another appeared. This time the truck was loaded with many large cargo boxes, neatly stacked on top of each other with the labels facing outward.

"Look, sister, the boxes have Russian written on them. Isn't that strange, sister?" Aioros remarked.

Aiowyn shook and paled, her eyes turning wide with a fear that she would not speak out loud. "There are lots of Russians in Cuba, Aioros, even your brother Leonardo has a few Russian friends. It is nothing special." She said to the boy with a forced smile, though she did not seem to truly believe what she was saying.

When a third truck filled with soldiers went past them down the earthen forest road, Aiowyn jerked to a stop and stared after the truck with wide, wide eyes. On her fair face a multitude of feelings, incredulity, exasperation, suspicion, fear, fought and merged with each other. For a long while she stood there as one entranced, until she felt Aioros's small hand tightened around her own.

"Sister, another car is coming, we have to move to the side." Aioros said.

Aiowyn sighed, "We as well get off the road altogether and cut through the woods. I am getting tired of being interrupted by strange vehicles."

Pulling Aioros behind her, she got off the road and began picking her ways through the dense greens once more. The car that was approaching now sounded very near. There was a hiss of the brakes, then a low growl of tires grating against pebbles, and the slam of a car door.

"Maybe drive a little more to the side," A voice sounded and just barely reached their ears. "Between those two trees, that's a good place to park. We want to make sure that there is enough room for the trucks to pass."

Aiowyn was in the process of pushing a few persistent branches away from her face, but upon hearing those words she made a sudden full stop. Aioros, on the other hand, seemed pleasantly surprised. "That's Brother Leonardo!" He cried excitedly. "Sister, let's..." Aiowyn suddenly clamped a palm over his mouth. The small boy quieted, but seemed utterly confused.

"We don't need to let him know we are here now." Aiowyn said with a pale smile. "Let's sneak close and see who is with him. Then we can surprise him and his friend, how is that?"

Aioros did not understand at all, but he nodded nonetheless. The two retraced their steps and stopped behind a bunch of overgrown bushes. There they could see clearly the black car that was parked beside the dirt road, and the few people that stood around. Leonardo was there, and standing beside him was a tall man in his mid-thirties. His face was finely chiseled and beautiful, but the cold dark eyes reminded one of a bird of prey. He was dressed most immaculately in military suit that Aiowyn instantly recognized as belonging to Soviet officers ranking at least a lieutenant. A couple more soldiers with gleaming rifles scattered about.

"How many more, Comrade Virenov?" They saw Leonardo asking the Soviet officer.

The one he called Virenov answered, "Just one more with our technicians and some delicate instruments. They should be here soon."

"We will wait for them here then. As soon as they pass we will follow."

There was silence for a few moments, then Virenov remarked casually with a smile, "It has been a great pleasure to work with you, Comrade Castille. It only took you three days to bring the petroleum refinery back to full production level while allowing us all the resources to finish installing the launch pads. Even in the great Soviet Union, such effective coordination is rare."

"You give me too much credit, Comrade Virenov." Leonardo said with a smile. "All I did was move some people and materials. I really know nothing about nuclear missiles, and there would be nothing done without your expertise."

"You are too humble, Comrade Castille!" Came the reply. "You have, after all, worked for almost half a year now around the different launch sites we have been building. It seems to me that your are as much an expert as I am now. If it weren't for you, there is simply no way that this site would be functional so soon."

The two men shared a good laugh. Off the road behind the tree, Aiowyn was shaking like a leaf in the wind. Her face was completely white, but her eyes burned. "Sister!" Noticing her torment, a confused and fearful Aioros tugged at her hand. She did not react at all.

"Move out of there, lady." Suddenly a rough voice speaking in accented English barked.

Aiowyn spun around and found herself staring into the dark barrel of a long rifle. Behind the rifle was a snarling Soviet soldier. "Get on the road go stand beside the car. You too, brat. Don't try anything." The soldier barked once more.

Aiowyn obeyed silently, moving on to the road. Upon seeing her Leonardo suddenly paled. He started at her intently with something akin to horror in his dark eyes.

"Sir," The Soviet soldier reported to his lieutenant, "I caught this woman hiding behind the bushes and listening in on the conversation."

Virenov looked at the woman before him with bemusement, taking in her beautiful face distorted with utter disbelief and hatred. "I know you." He said, suddenly recognizing the face. He glanced at Leonardo, who now looked equally distraught.

Aiowyn spared no other soul a single glance; she was staring at Leonardo unflinchingly. "Three days ago you told of course there aren't any missiles in Cuba." She said, voice dangerously low.

Leonardo remained silent. A small, cynical laughed rumbled in Virenov's throat. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he was quiet. He only took his gun from its holster and pressed it into Leonardo's hand. Slowly, very, very slowly, Leonardo raised the gun and pointed it squarely at Aiowyn. "Get in the car." He said, and his voice was rough like sandpaper.

"No." Aiowyn said spitefully.

"Don't force my hand," His brow furrowed and his voice now sounded angry. "Get in the car or…"

"Or what? You will shoot me?" Aiowyn raised her chin and laughed. "Go ahead, I dare you. Show me if you are really what I think you are."

Like a panther suddenly leaping for its prey, Leonardo sprang into motion. In one step he was beside her, pulling her hair and jamming the gun into her tender neck forcefully. "Get in the bloody car, woman!" He roared.


	3. Weapon Part 2

At the same time another voice sounded, a shrill voice lacking in volume but just as explosively angry as that of Leonardo. "Get away from her!" Aioros screamed, the bow in his hand bent a dangerous full moon shape, then a twang, a whistle, and an arrow firmly planted itself in Leonardo's shoulder.

Leonardo let out a breathless grunt. The gun fell from his hand and he stumbled, yet he remained standing and thundered, "Don't shoot!"

Too late. A bang echoed in the forest, and the potent smell of sulphur rent the air. Leonardo launched himself at Aioros, covering the small boy with his own body. They fell down together. Aioros scrambled up quickly and stared at the immobile Leonardo with wide, wide eyes. His hands were red with blood.

It seems time itself remained still, a moment of gaping pause when all the rancorous chaotic sound came to a sudden crashing halt---- then sound again, thrusting into the silence like a Wagnerian horn.

Aiowyn let loose a choked scream, while Virenov swore, loudly and vengefully. He went right next to the small boy and grabbed his collar. He dragged the child across the road and all but threw him into the car. Picking up the gun on the ground, he waved his hand at Aiowyn. "Don't make me say this more than once, woman," He snarled. "Get in the car or else."

Aiowyn did not move, she was staring at the prone form lying on the ground. "Leonardo…" She murmured. "You can save him… please, you can…."

"Let us worry about that and just get in the car!" Virenov growled, though his voice already sounded softer.

Aiowyn said no more and obediently disappeared into the black vehicle.

The source of hysteria was rendered more and more concrete and irrecoverably real as they neared the refinery. Trucks, soldiers, bland and grey constructions filled the car windows. Aiowyn stared, pale-faced, her lips pressed together resolutely. Young Aioros seemed in a daze, but his small, blood stained hands still clenched his bow and quiver, a stark contrast of the white of his fingers, the red of blood, and the black of the smooth bow.

When they arrived at the main building, they were promptly pushed into what Aiowyn believed Leonardo's office. The heavy wooden door banged close after them and the lock clicked obsequiously. Aiowyn looked blankly around Leonardo's cozy and tasteful office. It should, and could have been a warm haven she would enjoy, but now, it was her prison and perhaps, execution chamber. She saw a photo in a handmade wooden photo frame standing on Leonardo's desk. In the photo she beamed at the world from under feet and feet of satin and organza. Beside her Leonardo stood, tall and beautiful and radiating the warmth of Caribbean sun. She stared at the photo, and suddenly she felt as if she couldn't breath. She was drowning in muddled thoughts of agony.

Through the pot-hole like window one could see the gathering clouds, black upon black, and the maddened dance of the trees. The storm was in full gear

Aiowyn did not know how many hours passed in utter silence, before the lock clicked again and the door opened. Leonardo emerged from the door. He was now wrapped in loose white clothes typical of a hospital patient, one arm hanging in a sling. His face was incredibly pale, though his deep, dark eyes lost none of their predatory energy.

Suddenly something snapped in Aiowyn. Though she did not make a sound, tears welled in her eyes and flowed down her face freely. Determinedly Leonardo avoided her eyes, instead he looked at the young Aioros, who stared back unflinchingly. "You have got quite a shot there, young man." He said. His voice was low and rough with weariness. "Quite an amazing feat, to handle the bow like that."

"It is a good weapon." Aioros finally replied after a long moment of silence. The little boy looked tense and torn. His eyes seemed as if he wants to rush up and hug his brother, but his hands curled into tight fists by his side.

"Good weapon or not, I certainly do not wish to see it aimed at me." Leonardo said with a wry smile.

The little boy flared, "I am just trying to protect my sister! You were going to hurt her!"

Leonardo looked at the small boy for a long time, finally he said with a sigh, "Yes, to protect and to safeguard, that's what weapons are for. Yes, you are only trying to protect your sister, but little one, I too am only trying to protect." As those words left him, he finally turned his eyes towards Aiowyn.

"I am only trying to protect, my country, my people. The price may become greater than I imagined, but I am willing to pay nonetheless." He said quietly, dark eyes never leaving Aiowyn's face.

Still Aiowyn said nothing, only sobbed silently.

"I am sorry." Leonardo murmured quietly before falling back into silence.

It seemed as if the very air of the room was frozen as the three occupants stood statue like, never uttering a word. The spell of silence was rudely broken by a sudden shriek of the alarms: long ringing notes announcing the breach of the fortress by some intruders.

Leonardo cursed under his breath and leaped like a cat despite having one arm in sling. He pushed open the door but pulled it back shut almost immediately. From outside the thick wooden door, the sound of machine guns echoed dully.

"Get down!" He hissed at Aiowyn and Aioros, then approach the door once more. Slower this time, and more cautiously.

Before he even reached the door, a tremendous explosion shook the building. Tables and chairs danced on the ground, and all the paintings on the wall, the vases and glasses on the desk unceremoniously kissed the floor. Aiowyn and Aioros were already down on the floor. Even Leonardo could no longer keep his balance and stay standing. He held on to the skidding desk, half kneeling in an awkward position.

As soon as it came, the shaking quickly stilled. There was more sound of gun shots, dampened by distance. Then pounding on the thick wooden door, accompanied by frantic cries in Virenov's familiar voice, "Comrade Castille, Leonardo, get out…"

A low and muffled "bang" and Virenov's voice stopped dead. Leonardo stared at the door, even paler than before. After what seemed like infinity, the door burst open with a loud bang. A tall, handsome man in his mid-thirties appeared, in sun glasses, trench coat and gloves, with a gleaming revolver in his hand. Outside the small window, a lightning strike lit up the layers of roiling clouds an eerie green.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Leonardo Castille," The man said with easy grace as if he was at a social function. "I am Roger Feen of the CIA."

His ostentatious patronization made Leonardo snarl like an angry leopard. "What do you want?" He spat out.

Feen shrugged, "Nothing much, just a tour of the centre control room with you as the guide. I am most intrigued by your missiles."

"Never," Leonardo turned his head. "Over my dead body."

"Yes yes, I thought you would rather die first." Feen said with mock patience. "But you should know that my people have the entire place surrounded. All of your workers, those few hundreds that are still alive anyway, are surrounded by a ring of explosives, and the detonator is right in my hand. Will that make you reconsider?"

Leonardo stayed still for a long time, then he pushed himself up and said darkly, "Follow me, then." He walked out of the door without a second glance back.

Feen made to follow, but paused at the last second. He pointed his revolver towards Aiowyn and said with a smile, "Get you up, my lady, and kindly follow us. And your little brother too. Somehow I have the feeling that Comrade Castille would be much more cooperative if you two happen to be there."

From there things deteriorated like a sandcastle dissolving in the tide. When they entered the control room, Leonardo gestured towards the gargantuan machines sitting in the room. "Start it up," Feen had commanded.

There was an almost imperceptible smile on Leonardo's face as he turned towards the machines. With deft motions he punched keys, flicked levers, and did many things almost too fast to be distinguished apart. And when he turned back to face the American there was a triumphant expression on his face.

"Your face almost seems to suggest that you have some thing over me," Roger Feen suggested mildly.

"Perhaps I do," Leonard replied, dark eyes emotionless and cold, "I have just aimed the missile at Miami and released all the safety controls. One touch of my finger and I can send it flying. Do you want to test the latest Soviet technology?" His hand hovered above the machines.

"Oh dear!" Feen cried, though his voice was distinctively unconcerned. "What do you want me to do then?"

His nonchalance disconcerted Leonardo and the Cuban was quiet for a while, but at last he demanded, "Give me the detonator and your gun first."

A slow grin split Feen's face, turning the features from handsome to eerie. "I don't think I can do that," He said. "Therefore it seems there is naught you can do put to press and button and send the missile flying."

There was only stunned silence from Leonardo. It was Aiowyn who jumped at shouted with a voice shot with disbelief, "What?"

Alarmed, the CIA man turned his gun on her and commanded, "Stay put, lady."

"You think I am making a bluff." Leonardo said quietly, though the anger was apparent. "Do you truly think I have enough love for you Americans to not press that key?"

Feen laughed, "Oh no, I am sure you are not bluffing. But I don't mind you pressing that key at all. In fact, I came here with that very purpose in mind. Americans and the world could use a little bit more information about your dirty work."

Again Aiowyn cried, "This is how you are going to let the American people know? By letting a missile fall on Miami?"

Feen did a faultlessly graceful shrug, "Well, other than information, the Americans also need a fault proof excuse to sink this island nation back into the sea."

At this Aiowyn exploded. "You bastard! What made you think American people want a God forsaken war? What made you think they would sink Miami to have a war?" So explosive was her scream that even Feen seemed taken aback for a few seconds. "This pathetic little scheme is out of your own loony head and whichever chauvinistic, cruel, irresponsible warmonger you work for! Who is it? Dulles? McNamara?"

Unbelievably as it seemed, but Feen looked distinctively intimidated by Aiowyn's flaming fury. He backed up a step and ignored her promptly. Turning to Leonardo once more and said impatiently, "What are you waiting for? Fire the missile now!"

Leonardo stayed unmoving and silent.

"Fire the god damn missile, now!"

Leonardo finally replied, in a low and calm voice, "I cannot." After a moment of pregnant pause, he said, "Fine, you called my bluff. This is a nuclear missile; I cannot set it off on millions of innocent people."

Feen snarled and brandished the gun and the detonator in his hand, "Don't you forget whose lives I have got between my fingers."

"You can blow this refinery and everyone in it to smithereens and still I cannot do it." Leonardo answered swiftly and resolutely.

Feen laughed and raised the gun in his hand high. He made sure everyone in the room saw him click the safety off. It was precisely at this point that an arrow cut low across the room and embedded itself in his leg. Feen shrieked, his hand shook, and the detonator fell. A small form, none other than the five years old Aioros, jumped, dove after the small falling device and caught it just before it hit the ground.

"You little son of a bitch!" The no longer suave looking Roger Feen shouted madly, and fired the gun in his hand. Almost instinctively Aioros dropped to the floor. At the same time Leonardo and Aiowyn moved as well.

Outside the horrendous storm had come to a sudden halt, and the clouds broke rapidly. Eastward the sky reddened as the morning sun hulled itself up. But inside all hell broke loose.

It was important to tell what transpired exactly or who did what. The fateful key was pressed and now a nuclear missile was on the rise heading towards the beautiful seaside city of Miami. That became the only thing that ever mattered and would matter after a brief chaos.

All the clouds were gone, and the sun was clear above the green shades of the jungle. The missile just broke the tree line, now a clear blotch of silver against the blue-white sky. Aioros stopped running and looked up. It seemed to him that he saw behind the missile printed against the sky Aiowyn's face. His beloved sister had never looked so torn, so furious yet so helpless. He saw Leonardo's face, weary but resolute. He saw Miami, this beautiful city he often visited, with tourists filling up the sprawling beaches. One image rolled in after another, and they blurred together into a tapestry so bright that it threatened to wring tears from his tired eyes.

"Do you know the true purpose of weapons, little one?" Leonardo's voice echoed by his ears. "I too only want to protect."

Aioros lifted his bow and set the last arrow to string. Even as he pulled the bow into the potent full moon, a gust of golden fire seemed to gather around him. For a moment he seemed like a torch, outshining even the new sun. The bow twanged and the arrow sailed, a streak of gold fire. It sliced through the sky with a speed that hardly seemed possible, and in the blink of the eye it was flying side by side with the missile.

Then it struck.

A colossal sheet of golden flame sprang from the arrow and engulfed the entire missile. It burned brighter and brighter still even as it ascended. Then like a candle burning out, the flame gave one last pulse and was gone. Along with it, the continental ballistic missile armed with megaton nuclear warhead.

Aioros did not remember how long he stood there in a trance, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw his sister standing behind him, supporting Leonardo with one arm. Both were looking at him with awe and relief.

"Is it over?" The little boy sniffed, feeling the attack of tears for the first time in the whole episode. "Is everything going to be alright?"

Leonardo smiled at him, a pale but warm smile. "It's not over yet. But little one, things will be alright, you will see."

Aioros nodded gravely and hugged his bow close to his chest.


	4. Blood Rose Part 1

1968, Prague

First morning of 1968 gave no indication of the tumultuous year to come. The city of Prague was quiet and mellow, all pretty sparkling white under the blanket of fresh snow. Faint sounds of tolling bells floated above the city, rousing the citizens from their sleep and heralding a day of well-deserved peace and celebration. But such relaxation hardly existed for Alexander Dubcek, who was already working away planning the future of the country. Presently he sat in a small study in his Prague home with his friend and colleague Oldrich Cernik, pouring over the paper littering the small table before them.

"It seems all in order." Cernik said at last, putting down the pen in hand. "We can probably start circulating this in the party's inner circle as soon as Novotny officially steps down from his post."

"Which will be in only a few days." Dubcek replied with a smile. "Ah, how eager I am to begin, old friend."

Cernik nodded, "I too am eager to see this vision unfold. I like how you termed it: 'socialism with a human face'. It certainly has a poetic touch, though nothing too erudite." He paused a moment then added quietly, "Yet I fear, Alex. I remember Hungary all too well."

Dubcek knocked his friend's hand with his pen, "Do not draw such associations! You are calling bad luck onto us, you realize, on the first day of the year too!" Then with a sober sigh, "I do understand your worries, Oldrich. But we must try, or else we would be tormented with too many 'what ifs'."

The two fell back into a pondering silence when the heavy door suddenly threw open, and a child dressed most immaculately stepped in. "Uncle! Oh Happy New Year, Uncle!" The child cried in his bell like voice and nearly threw himself at his uncle. Dubcek laughed heartily and set the small child in his lap.

"And Happy New Year to you too, my little one." He said.

Cernik looked amazed. "I didn't you had a nephew living with you." He said.

"Ah, he just came to me a few months ago. He is the son of my little cousin. Poor child, lost both parents last year and hadn't had a home until he came to me." Dubcek whispered an explanation to his friend. Turning back to the little boy, he said in a tender voice, "Aren't you going to say Happy New Year to Mr. Cernik as well, little one?"

"How do you do, Mr. Cernik? Nice to meet you! And Happy New Year to you, Mr. Cernik!" Arms still around Dubcek's neck, the little child turned his big eyes to Cernik and greeted him in a most serious manner, but at the end of the sentence his face broke into a sparkling smile.

Cernik found himself a little dazzled. The boy was so young, only five perhaps six years old, but already there was a great beauty about him. His long and curled hair was a silvery blue like that of some fantastic sprite out of the sea, and his flawless porcelain face flushed with the faintest pink was set with a pair of wide blue eyes like crystal. Soon this little boy will be breaking hearts left and right! Cernik thought to himself with a smile.

"It's nice to meet you too." He said warmly. "You will tell me your name, my child?"

"You can call me Dite!" The little boy said.

"Dite?" Cernik pondered over the unusual name. "Is it short for something?"

Dubcek cut in before his nephew could reply, "It's short for Aphrodite. What do you think, Oldrich? My little boy pretty enough for that name?" There was a twinkle in Dubcek's normally deep and somber eyes.

Cernik coughed and chuckled uncontrollably.

"Uncle!" The little boy reddened a little and protested loudly. "Don't believe uncle, Mr. Cernik. He teases me so! It's short for Dieter."

Cernik laughed some more. "Right, Dieter. Though I must agree with your uncle. Aphrodite becomes you so well."

When the child reddened even more and pouted very prettily. Both Cernik and Dubcek broke out laughing long and hard. Cernik suddenly felt light-hearted. Reforms, Soviet Union, Hungary, those were forgotten for a while. Indeed, why so glum? It was New Year's Day after all, and little Dieter's flawlessly beautiful so happy and carefree seemed evidence enough that winter was already melting into spring. He had a hard time stop laughing; the sound of joy flowed from him like a bubbling spring.

Presently the small boy stuck his hands to his hip and said with a pout, "Now if you would only stop laughing, perhaps I can actually show you the New Year present I prepared."

Dubcek promptly stopped his chuckling. "Really? A present, Dite! Well, you must show me!" He exclaimed.

Cernik smiled to himself. The old man was acting like a small child! Dieter jumped up and grabbed Dubcek's hand and dragged on Cernik's sleeve. Excitedly he pulled them out the study door. The two men exchanged an amused look and followed the small boy obediently.

The boy led them straight out of the house and into the rose garden that was Dubcek's pride and joy. A winter chill hung loose in the air, weaving white gossamer out of warm breath. A thin layer of sparkling white snow, all hardened and crystallized, covered the rich dark soil. There wasn't a single flower or leaf in sight, but the bare branches showed obvious signs of careful pruning and boasted impressive blooms in spring.

Dieter led the two men through the maze of thorny bushes and finally stopped at the very corner of the rose garden. There, hiding behind a row of tall branches, was a very small rose bush no more than a foot tall. Unlike all the other bare branches, this one had a few glossy green leaves, gleaming like emeralds in the grey light. Behind the leaves was a single flower of red like a ruby in the snow.

Dubcek seemed astounded. "Is that… Is that the Swedish Winter Dreams?" He asked in an awed voice.

"Yes!" Little Dieter cried proudly. "I have been taking care it last few months, and now there's finally a flower!"

Seeing Cernik's puzzled face Dubcek explained quietly, "Winter Dreams is a top breed of rose from Sweden. They are quite difficult to take care of; almost never produce flowers outside of Sweden." He bent down and patted Dieter's small head, "My little Dite is quite a wizard!"

He added after a moment of thought, "That is a wonderful gift, Dite. To show my thanks, I will let you half of the rose garden to plant whatever you like in whatever ways you think the best. You like that?"

The little boy looked up with wide blue eyes. "Really?"

Dubcek smiled. "Of course. You have proven yourself most capable of worthy of this garden."

"Oh thank you, uncle, thank you!" Dieter exclaimed eagerly. "Can I go now, uncle? I want to go work on a design right now!"

"Of course." Dubcek said. "But go in the kitchen and get some breakfast first!"

"Right, uncle!" The boy was already off, his small form soon disappearing behind the rows upon rows of rose bushes.

Dubcek stared after the child with a faraway look in his eyes. When Cernik said something he blinked slowly. "Pardon, Oldrich? I am sorry, my mind wandered."

"I said he is a mostly lovely child."

Dubcek sighed and said, "He was not always like this. When he first came to me he wouldn't speak a word to anyone. To lose both parents at such an age, that's a misfortune no child should suffer."

"But it seems he is well-recovered. I think you filled the position of parent a little for him." Cernik said sincerely.

"Perhaps." Dubcek nodded.

After a moment of silence, Dubcek began in a low voice, "Dite's father, my little cousin's husband, he was a Sudeten German. Quite an accomplished writer he was, very popular in the west. Of course he was never politically correct and always way too blunt with his opinions. His works have been banned here since the fifties." Dubcek sighed again. "Dite worshipped his father, and he hated the fact all of his father's works are considered corrupt and illegal here. He doesn't say anything to me, but I see it. You should've seen his face when I gave him his father's poetry collection that I asked a friend to get from West Berlin. He was near tears. One reason that kept me going with our plan is the boy: I truly wish I can one day take him to see one of his father's plays, produced right here on Prague stage."

Dubcek's voice was wrought with a heart-wrenching tenderness that moved Cernik. He suddenly understood: so that was the "human face" that Dubcek wished to bring to socialism, the flawlessly beautiful face of an unfortunate boy that became the manifestation of beautiful face of every child in Czechoslovakia.

"Do you think me selfish?" Dubcek asked a little abruptly.

Cernik smiled. "No, not at all, old friend."

* * *

By the end of June it was already very hot in Prague. Oppressive storm clouds always pressed at the edge of the sky. Dubcek sat in his small study, going through paper restlessly. It was early morning, but the breeze that swept in from the study window was hardly cool or refreshing. Even the scent of blooming roses smelt old and musky in the heat. 

It must be the soldiers, armed to the teeth, and the teeming Soviet tanks, still stationed somewhere on the soil of Czechoslovakia. How can anything seem right when the country was surrounded by gun barrels?

Skimming the chunks of text at top speed and making some marks with a pencil here and there, Dubcek worked through the mountain pile at an impressive pace. At the bottom of the pile he picked up a thin document with a title page that bore the dark letters "Two Thousand Words that Belongs to Workers, Farmers, Officials, Scientists, Artists, and Everybody", the author was marked as Ludvik Vaculik. Dubcek paused a moment and looked at the document. Fear suddenly stirred within him. Irritated, he opened the paper and clenched to his pencil hard, as if trying to push aside whatever inquietude he felt.

Dubcek's brows furrowed after only a couple minutes of reading; soon he was frowning. Two pages later his hands began to shake and the pencil threatened to escape his grip. "Fool! Idiot!" The normally serene and calm man now muttered angrily to himself. "Is he _trying_ to anger the Soviets? He is pushing Czechoslovakia in front of gun point!"

The pages turned faster and faster, and the hands shook harder. Finally, Dubcek's strong hand gripped the paper and smashed it against the table. There was a violent shaking of inkwells and penholders, and the flower vase on the table shook, swayed crashed. The bright red roses in the vase fell on the floor, like patches of blood.

"Idiot!" Dubcek raged, leaping from his chair, voice hoarse like a growling lion.

"Uncle?" A small voice asked.

Dubcek stilled. Little Dieter stood right in front of him, blue crystal eyes looking out concernedly. Dubcek forced a smile and said, "Don't worry about me, Dite. I am just a little upset over something to do with work."

Dieter nodded and bent down to pick up the rose flowers on the floor. "You are always upset over work these days." He said quietly.

Dubcek looked at him with shock. The little boy was still picking up flowers, head bent low and face unobservable, hidden by his always-perfect silver blue hair. Dubcek wanted to say something, but could not find the words.

The little boy gathered the red roses and replaced them in the vase. "Those are the last Winter Dreams." He suddenly murmured. "I tried many ways to extend their flowering time, but spring is definitely over and it's simply too hot nowadays for those flowers."

Upon hearing those words Dubcek's hands jerked, just once. Was spring… truly over? He stared at the blood red roses, then looked back to Dieter's ethereal face, and the faint fear that stirred within him suddenly leaped and pulled taut.

"Listen, Dite," He asked with a smile, "How would you like to go on a vacation?"

Dieter looked at him with puzzlement, "But aren't you very busy with work, uncle?"

"There are others that can go with you. Some of your father's friends in Austria and Germany, they would love to have you with them for a while!" Dubcek explained.

The small boy smiled. "I know what you are trying to do, uncle." He said, "You want to send me off to a safe place, so you can feel better about risking your life here."

The child seemed perfectly calm as he carefully combed his fingers through his long silver blue hair, arranging them neatly. "But I am not going anywhere, uncle," Dieter continued, "I am staying right here. Nothing will happen to us, uncle. Anyone that dares to lay a finger on you, dies." He looked up again at Dubcek with a smile. The steely light of determination gleaming in those crystal eyes, that skewed, almost bloodcurdling smile, they only made his already flawless face even more beautiful.

Dubcek couldn't say a word. Was this really Dieter? His little Dieter of the roses? Slowly Dubcek fell back into his seat with a hapless sigh.


	5. Blood Rose Part 2

August heat rolled into Prague, piercing even the thick clouds veiling the blazing sun. Cernik got up from his and walked near the window. He pulled the window closed and said to Dubcek with a smile, "Your roses, Alex, their fragrance is giving me a headache." 

"It does that in this weather." Dubcek said listlessly.

Cernik said down again. He tilted his head and looked at his friend bemusedly. Finally he asked, "Alex, what are you worried about?"

"I don't know, I don't know!" Dubcek exclaimed with furrowed brow. "I feel something, Oldrich. It's true, the conference in July was successful; true, Brezhnev made concessions and allowed our reforms; true, Warsaw pact withdrew their soldiers. It seems we have won. But I am still worried." He paused briefly, then said in a very quiet voice, "Remember the letters we received from the Soviet Poliburo at Tisou? I stopped the letters from reaching the rest the party, but I think the conservatives have already gotten hold of them."

"What?" Cernik's voice trembled. "Kolder and Bilak? How did they get those letters? Our security should not have such a large hole."

"I don't know how," Dubcek said shaking his head, "But they did it.."

The two sat in silence for a while, then Dubcek said suddenly, "Leave, Oldrich."

"What?!"

"Leave Prague, Oldrich." Dubcek said quietly, "Go take a vacation. Turkey, Austria, West Germany, anywhere will do. Or even just somewhere near the borders. Leave Czechoslovakia as soon as something happens. Take all your family with you; take my Dite as well."

Cernik was speechless for a long time. Finally he asked with confusions, "What is going to happen? What have you heard, Alex?"

"I have heard nothing, it's just…"

Suddenly the door opened. Small Dite walked in, holding a tray in his small hands. His head was bowed and one could only see his long hair blue like Caribbean Sea and the white rose behind his ear. He put the tray on the desk. "Please have some tea, uncle, Mr. Cernik." The small boy said, handing them the teacups, "Fresh honey rose tea, I brewed it this morning and cooled it in the well for an entire morning."

"Thank you, Dite." Cernik forced a carefree smile for the child, but Dubcek said nothing.

Dieter suddenly raised his head. Looking straight into Dubcek's eyes, he said slowly, "Uncle, I have told you before: I am not going anywhere. I will stay here and protect you. No one will lay a finger on you." A brilliant smile surfaced on the small boy's flawless face, fierce and almost cruel. He said no more and left.

The morning of August 20, 1968, the storm that Dubcek feared finally rolled in. The conference room was silent like a tomb. Suddenly the door pushed open; at the door stood Cernik with lowered head. Everyone looked at him. "I have just heard; Soviet Red Army entered crossed the boarder." Cernik said very, very slowly. His eyes are shut; deep lines marred his face, making him seem suddenly aged.

Dubcek felt all the blood rushed into his head. For a moment he could not breathe; darkness filled his eyes. He stood up and paced in the conference room, forcing himself to calm with measured steps.

"Hungary… it's just like Hungary." Cernik murmured. "It is as you said, Alex. A bad comparison at New Year has indeed become our curse."

Dubcek shook his head, "No, no, Oldrich. My fault, it's all my fault. I am an idealistic fool, and now everyone will suffer for my illusions. Lord! Is it not enough to punish me? Why my people and my Czechoslovakia?" The always calm and reserved old man seemed broken at the moment. His voice trembled and he sounded he was about to weep.

"Come, Alex. It is not your fault. We must think of what we should do now." Someone said gently.

Dubcek nodded heavily. He was a seasoned leader, and in a moment he forced down the roiling emotions in his chest. He said, "We must let the people know of this. It is simply irresponsible to hide this information from them. But we must be careful of our wording. We cannot let there be rampant fear and anarchy, nor can we encourage resistance. We must lower casualty to the utmost of our abilities."

A sleepless day started there.

The next morning, Dubcek read over the radio to the entire nation the few hundred words that was the crystallization of their heart and blood. It was only a few minutes, though it felt like a lifetime. When Dubcek finally exited the room, he smiled tiredly at the waiting Cernik, "We can only wait and see now."

"Perhaps…" Cernik said after a moment of hesitation, "Perhaps you should leave Prague. The Soviets… They…I worry for you, Alex."

Dubcek shook his head, "It's too late, Oldrich." Suddenly he remembered something and blanched. "My Lord, Dite!" He exclaimed, "How did I forget all about him? I have to go home, Oldrich."

"What are you going to say to the child? Tell him his uncle will never be back?" Cernik said with barely veiled pain in his voice.

"I…" Dubcek could not speak, finally he muttered, "I don't know, but I have to see him." He left without saying another word.

He barely stepped in the door when Dieter rushed out and hugged his waist tightly. The boy's always perfect hair was astonishingly somewhat out of place. "Uncle!" Dieter cried, "Why did you not come back the entire night? I was so scared!"

Dubcek patted the boy's head and said with a smile, "Why scared? You know uncle would never leave you. Come, let's go up stairs."

The two walked up stairs and entered the study. Dubcek fished out a thick contact book from his drawer and began making calls. Even though his voice was low and what he said was hardly clear, but Dieter still seemed to become more and more nervous. After nearly hour half an hour, Dubcek finally put down the phone. A weight was lifted from his heart. Friends had promised to bring Dieter out of Warsaw Pact countries. He sighed, and walked towards the window, hoping for some fresh air with the scent of roses. Instead he saw tanks and armoured vehicles approaching his house from down the street. They are fast, he thought wryly. At least Dieter would be taken care of; there was nothing else for him to worry. He closed the window and for the first time since he could remember locked the window. Then he pulled the curtains closed.

"Stay here for a while, Dieter, I shall be out for a few minutes." Dubcek said.

"Where are you going, uncle?" Dieter asked nervously, as if he felt something.

"Come, Dite, sit down. I will just be getting something from the bedroom."

The child sat down again, though still reluctantly. Dubcek breathed a sigh of relief. Quickly he stepped out of the study, closed the door, and locked the door with a firm click.

"Uncle!" The boy's voice rang with anger and fear alike, then incessant pounding of the door. "Uncle, what are you doing? What are you doing!"

Dubcek paused for a moment, then he placed the key on the floor outside the study. Those who would come and take Dieter away would no doubt need it. Then he left without turning his head even once. When he was standing in front of the door of the house, people were already occupying his rose garden. They were all soldiers with gleaming helmets and rifles. In front of them stood a middle-aged man dressed in long trench coat, looking at him with a cold laugh. Dubcek stood behind a row of roses, waiting. Finally he was afraid. He thought he would soon leave this world he loved so dearly, and his heart felt like it was cloven in two. Farewell, Dieter; farewell, comrades; farewell, Czechoslovakia.

"Comrade Dubcek," The man in trench coat stood firm before him, "You are arrested on the charges of counter-revolutionary activities. You must come with us now."

Dubcek nodded wordlessly. He took a few steps forward, but suddenly a shot of explosion rent the air. Surprised, Dubcek halted. A window on the second story of the house shattered, the million shards of broken glass seemed like a shower of crystal under the morning sun. A small figure leaped out from the window, silvery blue hair spreading behind him like wings of an eagle.

"Dieter?!"

Like a wild cat the small child leapt before Dubcek. He stood tall and straight, cold blue eyes glaring at the man in trench coat. "No one touches my uncle!" He said slowly.

The man before him sneered and walked forward, ready to push the child aside.

"Get back!" dieter cried. A gold flame suddenly leapt up about him. Wind began to fill the garden; rose trees began to vibrate together in a strange, eerie resonance. Flower petals filled the roiling wind, white yellow, red and black, like a rainbow coloured storm. Beautiful the flower petals were, but also deadly; they cut like the sharpest knives. The soldiers all dropped their rifles, protecting their faces with their arms, confused and overwhelmed at the sudden storm. The man in trench coat cursed in Russian and pulled out a head. Without any hesitation he fired at the doll like child.

Dubcek, who stood frozen with shock and disbelief, finally moved. He pushed Dieter to the ground, covering the child with his own body. The bullet pierced his shoulder, sending up a spray of crimson.

"Uncle!" Dieter climbed up, voice becoming shriller still. "You… How dare you!" He screamed. He broke off a single rose, and launched the flower as if it were a knife. A stream of silver shot through the air, the pierced the man's chest, sinking in until the branch all disappeared from view. The snow white flower was soon dyed red with blood. The man in trench coat looked as if he was about to scream, but the sound never escaped his throat. He fell back stiffly, dead.

The soldiers were trying in vain to lift their rifles. The wind had picked up, gaining ferocity still. The whipping air was filled with flower petals sharp like knives, and the burning mist of gold radiating from the small, blue-haired child. The rose trees danced ecstatically, the thorny branches extended and whipped, like angry snakes.

"Stop it, Dieter!" Dubcek cried.

Dieter seemed to not hear him at all; he was watching the struggling soldiers with satisfaction. Dubcek held the boy tightly, locking down his arms. "What are you doing, Dieter? Kill those people for my burial gifts? Stop it now!" In anger and shock Dubcek's words seemed unusually sharp.

"No, no!" Dieter cried once more, struggling in Dubcek's arms like a wild cat. "I won't! I won't let them take you away!"

Dubcek clenched his teeth and hit the child's tender neck with the edge of his palm. Dieter moaned, then fell down unconscious.

The wind still in the garden, and the rose trees collected their branches, leaving behind only the colourful petals. Carefully Dubcek placed the child on the ground. Lying there atop of the blanket of roses, the blue-haired child looked like a doll, simply unreal.

Dubcek straightened and faced the dozen rifles aimed on him without any expressions. "I will go with you," He said, "Leave the child here."

Dubcek did not vanish from the face of the planet as he imagined he would. Instead he was returned to his native land and become a forester in the lost woods of Slovakia. For many long years he did not see any relatives or friends, especially not his beloved nephew Dieter, the beautiful, dangerous, blue-haired child of the roses. Whenever he thought about the child, he consoled himself with the notion that the child must be living happily and freely in Austria or West Germany. He did not know that after many toils and tales Dieter eventually ended up in an ancient holy ground called the Sanctuary. There was another rose garden: the rose garden of a soldier.

When the children of the Sanctuary asked curiously the familiar question of exactly what Dite stood for, Dieter did not provide an answer so quickly. He suddenly remembered uncle's laughing eyes. After a long moment of silence he finally answered, "Dite, short for Aphrodite."


	6. Juxtaposition Part 1

1967 to 1973, Tibet

On the third morning the far-flying rumour still hadn't quieted down. General Zhang Guohua, highest ranking officer of the Tibet Autonomous Region military zone of People's Republic of China, could take it no more. He decided to go out on the street and observe the source of rumours for himself. At the end of the main street where one could see the Potala Palace piercing the blue sky, many people gathered.

The crowd murmured.

"He must be the living Buddha!"

"Sent by the gods to guide us!"

"For real? I always thought that ever since His Holiness Dalai Lama left, the gods would never care for us anymore! Did they truly remember us still?"

Zhang made a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat; a wave of dissatisfaction rose in him. At the same time, he could not help being disappointed. This was the sixteenth year since he brought army and communism to Tibet; this was the seventh year since the Tibetan aristocrats escaped with their dirty treasures; this was the sixth year since the abolition of serfdom after millennium of feudal repression; this was the fifth year since his armies completely devastated the arrogant and interfering Indians on the boarder. This was Tibet, 1967. In Zhang's heart, he truly thought that this was a year without irrational superstitions. Yet he was standing here, listening to the crowd marvel at a small child with pious fear.

He wove through the throngs of people with impatience. In the midst of the crowd there was indeed a child perhaps two or three years old. When Zhang saw the child, he drew a sharp breath. The boy had a pair of extremely green eyes, so transparent they seemed to be made of glass. His uneven hair is bright purple, like spring violets. On his white brow there were no eyebrows, only two spots of bright red. By heavens, Zhang exclaimed silently, is the child even human?

After the initial shock passed, Zhang noticed that the child was staring at him unblinkingly. The boy stood up shakily and extended a pair of thin, frail arms towards him. He tried to walk, but his small frame would not stop shaking, as if he could not muster the strength for a few simple steps. The crowd backed up a few steps, everyone watching the boy fearfully. Only Zhang stepped forward instead and swept the child in his arms. The poor little thing! He thought.

The boy buried his violet head in his chest, and muttered in an almost inaudible voice, "I…I… thirsty."

Zhang quickly took the green shaded military water bottle hanging at his waist, uncorked the lid and placed it next to the boy's lips. Two small hands grasped the water bottle greedily and all but upended the bottle. "No, little one, not so fast!" Zhang said worriedly, pulling the water bottle back. "Drink it slowly, in small sips too!" Zhang could tell that the child must be without food and drink for quite a few days and was in a severe state of dehydration. No matter how thirsty he was, drinking too much water at once would be akin to suicide. He held the water bottle firmly, so the boy in his arms could only take small, slow sips.

Zhang turned to his guard Dawa and said, "Quick, run home and tell them to prepare some porridge. I will be heading home immediately."

Dawa was a Tibetan, one with a head filled with superstitions too according to Zhang. Now he seemed to not hear the command at all, only stood there dumbly. His expression was exactly the same as that worn by the crowd, reverent and fearful. He just stared blankly at Zhang and the small boy in Zhang's arms, almost as if considering if he should kneel. Zhang raised his voice, "Why are you standing there like an idiot, Dawa? Go! Can't you tell the boy is starving! Go and get some food prepared for him!"

"Ah, yes!" Young Dawa blushed. He did a shaky and embarrassed salute before running off.

Zhang sighed. He corked his water bottle and replaced it on his belt. The child was still looking at the bottle greedily, so he had to force himself to ignore the child's eyes. Suddenly he felt a pain in his chest, as if someone jabbed him in some invisible depth. He glanced behind him. The Tibetans were still gathered behind, following the boy with their reverent eyes thought not moving an inch.

Anger surged in him. How could these people act thus? How could they just let the boy sit there? The child needed help, couldn't they see? But his anger towards the crowd quickly dissipated. It wasn't their fault: thousands year worth of faith in the divine cannot be forgotten so quickly.

His wrath turned towards himself instead. It was his fault! Sixteen years ago, when he first stepped into Tibet, full of bold visions, did he not swear to himself that he would never let a single child of Tibet starve?

What he had accomplished seemed so insufficient now. He no longer had that proud belief of a thirty-year old. Now he was no longer simply a soldier, but also a guardian of a whole land and the people dwelling there. He had realized the illusory idealism of his oath sixteen years, but all those years that same oath was what he had been fighting for. It was and would continue to be difficult, but he could not give up.

As for this boy in his arms now, in his heart he had already swore on every honour he had known that the child would no longer starve. He tightened his arms and quickened his homeward steps.

He tried mightily hard to locate the small boy's family, though in vain. It seemed no one had ever seen or known this violet haired child, as if he simply dropped out of the sky. The child himself was little help. He remembered his own name, which was Mu, and a few other random names, but that was it. In the end, Zhang kept the young Mu. His own son was already sixteen and wandering the country along with the army. Both Zhang and his wife were extremely glad for this new son in their life.

Very quickly, words had flown all over Lhasa: General Zhang had adopted a living Buddha.

Zhang had of course heard the rumours, but he did his best to ignore them. Every inch of Tibetan air was filled with ideas and thoughts from the old religious, feudal system; it was something he could not help. Of course he did not believe sayings about the living Buddha, but he could not deny that there was something strange about the child Mu.

He any many other Tibetans witnessed together Mu's power when the boy was only three years old. That time he brought Mu to view the newly build health clinic in the hinterland. On their way back, the car broke down on the main street of Lhasa. The breaks failed, and the jeep rolled downhill amidst thunderous mechanic humming like a wild horse. Fearful screams permeated the car windows.

Suddenly the car flew up in the sky. As if held by an invisible hand, the jeep hung in the midair. Outside of the car windows, a flock of sand hill cranes passed by. For a moment, Zhang wondered if he was dead already, until he finally noticed the child beside him. Young Mu had his hands clasped together. His green eyes were closed and his white brow wrinkled from his effort. A golden light swam about him.

The car dropped slowly, and touched down on the ground light as a feather but still as a stone. When they finally got out of the car, all the Tibetans on the road, whether they were hurrying by, talking, trading before, they all kneeled on the ground. Their heads were bowed low, and not even a breath was heard. Mu watched the people blankly, before hugging Zhang's leg with some fear. Zhang sighed and took the three years old Mu in his arms.

Ever since then, the entire Lhasa, even the entire Tibet, believed firmly that another Living Buddha had come to Tibet since the departure of Dalai Lama.

When Mu was young, many pious and good Tibetans brought him gifts. Every month the young boy would amass a collection of new clothes made from freshly woven fabric, finely sanded beads of wood or stone, packs of incense, and fresh goat milk and barley wine. Zhang tried many times to return those gifts, but after a few complete failures he could only let it go with a sigh. The only thing he insisted upon was paying for those items with either money or grains.

Mu himself never felt any disquiet. He gladly received those gifts, and always returned gifts as well. Even at the tender age of four, he could make some unbelievably beautiful things. He would make statues of Buddha out of clay to give to everyone. But soon another rumour started that the statues made by the Living Buddha contained potent magic and would bring fortune and wealth. Those simple clay statues quickly became what one could call a "fad" item in Lhasa. With a full headache, Zhang ordered the small boy to stop.

One day, Zhang saw Mu and the guard Dawa pouring over a Buddhist script from heaven-knows-where. Even from a distance, he could see the foreign script scrawled across the page. Four years old Mu, however, was reading the script out loud. Foreign words leapt off his tongue with ease. Those words sounded distinctively like the Pali script often heard in temps to Zhang. Every time Mu read a sentence, he would also translate it into Tibetan. "The fragrance of flower cannot go against the flower, but good deeds can reach many places, even against the wind." Beside him, Dawa nodded full of reverence.

Zhang felt his heart skip a beat. This child was stepping into the Living Buddha role too quickly and too effortlessly. Heavens! If this continues, another Dalai Lama would rise in Tibet. He quickly approached the two and snatched up the Buddhist scriptures.

"That's enough for today, you two." He said with furrowed brow. "Dawa, I think your break is almost over."

Dawa blushed and mumbled, "My apologies, sir" before leaving with a salute.

Mu was still eyeing the scriptures in Zhang's hand. "I want to read, something, anything, Papa." The boy said.

Zhang clenched his teeth and told himself firmly that he must choose the lesser of two evils amidst his guilt. He forced a smile and picked up a random pile of paper on his desk. "Here, read something different, little one." He said, handing the sheaves of paper to Mu.

After Mu took the papers, he suddenly realized that they were the report on building of highways and roads in Tibet. He wanted to laugh, but he was amazed to find that four-years-old Mu was already flipping through the report with interest. He stared at the child, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry. In the end he left the report with Mu. He was finished working with it anyway; let the child have his fun.

Two or three days later, Mu came to find him hugging the pile of papers tightly. "Papa, papa, I finished it!" The boy cried. "They built so many roads! Will they build more roads, papa? When they finish, can Auntie Tasha next door visit her sister much quicker?" A bright light shone in the boy's jade green eyes, a light that no amount of scriptures and statues of Buddha managed to bring.

Zhang was stunned for a long moment, but finally he laughed, freely and loudly. He put the small Mu on his knees. "Of course! You are absolutely right, little Mu. Everyone will be able to get to everywhere a lot quicker!" Zhang said. "When you grow up you help them build more roads too, how is that?"

Mu stopped reading scriptures, and he made no more statues of Buddha out of clay. Instead he made soup ladles, soap boxes, lamp shades and such out of wood to show his gratitude to those people insistent on giving him gifts. The young child spent a long time reading all the plans and reports on Zhang's desk. When Dawa came to speak to him, he always told the young Tibetan about new farms being opened and new rails being laid.

His supernatural power seemed to grow without bounds, but his own nonchalant attitude quickly led everyone to accept his power. Zhang's entire household quickly became used to dishes washing themselves in the sink and teapots pouring tea while levitating in midair. Even Zhang no longer minded the books and notes that flew to his hand by their own.

When Zhang finally left Tibet for the city of Chengdu to become the Premier of Sichuan, he almost forgot that the child he had adopted was Living Buddha in the kingdom of Himalaya.

In Chengdu, Mu turned six. He donned a white shirt and the red scarf of all communist youth and attended elementary school. His violet hair and green eyes only stirred a brief ripples. Quickly he became just another child at school, intelligent and loved by everyone.

But the extraordinary could not be kept under the semblance of ordinary matter forever. The unravelling started with the visit of one of Zhang's oldest friend.

That day the old friend voice arrived before his form. "Old Zhang, got some time to chat with an old friend?" The heavily accented voice came with its normal cheer. An incredulous Zhang hurried across the courtyard to the door. As amazing as it seemed, his friend and commander of many years Deng Xiaoping stood outside the door. The little man from Sichuan that led Zhang's Eighteenth division among others across the whole Western China all the way into Tibet was as short as ever, not particularly remarkable to look upon, but still exuding that quiet power.

"Commander Deng!" Filled with unexpected joy, Zhang welcomed his old friend into the house. They had not seen each for many years; now to be able to meet, to see each other's familiar face in the midst of this chaotic Cultural Revolution years, it was a thing to be glad of.

They were drinking their third cup of tea and discussing the escape of Lin Biao when Mu entered holding a gigantic stack of files. "Papa, Uncle Wang told me to give you some files and reports." The child said.

"Ah, Mu!" Zhang said and beckoned the child over. "Come here, little one, and say hello to Uncle Deng! Uncle Deng is a very, very old friend of papa's."

"Uncle Deng!" Mu said in his bright child's voice.

The ever unperturbed Deng Xiaoping now looked shocked beyond belief, and the tea cup fell from his hand. A glow of gold, and the teacup stopped in midair. It slowly floated back to the table without spilling a single drop of tea. The old man stared at the child before him for a long time, before saying, "Heavens, Zhang, that is unbelievable! I heard long ago that you picked up a little holy child in Tibet. I always thought that it was just rumour, but this is even more unbelievable than the rumour."

"Mu is a special one," Zhang said with a smile, "But it's nothing really. Once you are past the violet hair, it's all good, really." He flipped the files in his hand and remarked, "I bet Wang was in on this surprise visit? It seems he prepared everything you would like to see. Though there should be more in my study that would interest you." He turned and said to Mu, "Can you go grab the files in my study, little one?" As if remembering something, he added hurriedly, "Walk to the study, Mu!"

Mu nodded and left the room. When his small form disappeared the door, Deng asked with a tinge of worry, "About the child, is there nothing being said? Like the living Buddha or reincarnation of some god? In Tibet there must be rumours like that."

"There were some sayings among the locals in Tibet." Zhang admitted a little reluctantly.

"It's a good thing that he is not in Tibet right now!" Deng said with a serious expression. "People like him can boost up way too many underground religious organizations! And with the times right now, you must be very careful. You cannot let people come near him. And you have to watch the boy himself too, lest he get any thoughts!"

"I will be careful." Zhang answered, though a fear suddenly grew in him.

"Though it does seem like everything flies about carelessly here," Deng remarked pointedly.

Zhang was about to reply, but Mu was already standing in the room once again with the files in his hand. The violet haired child looked at the two old men motionlessly for a long time, but suddenly his beautiful face broke into a bright smile.

"Uncle Deng, your teacup is dry." He said.

The two old men looked back at him uncomprehendingly. The teacup and teapot suddenly lifted in the air. The teapot leaned, and stream of steaming tea fell in the cup, as accurate as the best service in those famous old tea houses in Chengdu. The now filled cup floated towards Deng. Still bemused, the old commander took the teacup.

"It only looks amazing, Uncle Deng, but it really serves nothing." In Mu's green eyes gleamed a seriousness and depth much unbefitting of his age. He said very slowly, "All I can do is pour a single cup of tea, but you and papa, your power can pour a cup of tea for everyone. What I can do is nothing compared to what you can do. I wouldn't have any thoughts, and I wouldn't let others use me either. Please trust me, Uncle Deng."

After a long, deafening silence, the hardened old man patted the small boy's violet head so very gently. "Oh child!" He said with a smiling sigh.


	7. Juxtaposition Part 2

Shaka was called Shaka because everyone believed that he was the reincarnation of Shakyamuni. They say he possessed all of the Holy One's memories and wisdom. In Dharamsala, the kingdom of Buddha, Shaka sat high upon the pedestal, by the right hand of the Dalai Lama himself.

But Shaka remembered more than Shakyamuni's wisdom. He remembered that in the first few years of his life, he was not called Shaka. He had another name then: Soren Hohenzollern. Along with that name, he also had a father. His father Joseph Hohenzollern had a proud and handsome Aryan face, with glaring gold hair and blue eyes. Joseph was indeed a descendent of the Prussian house, but he was born and raised in England. When the dust of World War II settled, the young and romantic Joseph had just reached an age where the lust for adventure turned irrepressible. With a chest full of passion and ideals, Joseph Hohenzollern left England and roamed across the post-war world. No one knew why and how, but Joseph eventually reached Tibet, the kingdom upon the shoulders of the world. There Joseph stayed.

All of these Shaka only learned when he was quite grown. When he was born, his father was already in Dharamsala with the rest of the Tibetan aristocrats that fled. And before he turned three years old, his father died. After that, there was no more Soren of the house of Hohenzollern; there was only Shaka.

Most people could only remember things after the age of four or five, but Shaka, he could capture the earliest moments of his life. He remembered that on the night of his first birthday, monks knocked at his door. "His Holiness the Dalai Lama instructed us to come." They said. "Your child is the reincarnation of Shakyamuni; he will bring enlightenment to the multitude. Please allow us to take him to the Dalai Lama."

Shaka remembered standing inside his cradle, holding on to the wooden bars and staring out at the monks curiously. The monks looked back at him with pious adoration.

"What is this nonsense?" His father, however, was angry. "He is my son! What reincarnation? That's ridiculous. You cannot take away my son!"

When the monks left, his fathered turned and faced him. "Oh Soren, for you alone I should leave this forsaken place and return to England." His father had said with a sigh, as if speaking to a fully grown man rather than a toddler. "But I cannot, Soren. There are things I must do here, my child." Shaka stared back at his father uncomprehendingly.

Shaka remembered that when he was two the same monks came once again. They came to deliver presents: beautiful lacquer bowls filled with vegetarian foods; rolls upon rolls of fine silk, linen, and fur; ancient books and scrolls, and also a string of beads.

"I prepared for you a gift as well, Soren." His father said. The golden haired man pulled out a small pendant from his coat pocket for his infant son. The pendant was made from wrought iron, shaped to represent a torch and a star. Curious, Shaka reached out for the pendant, but his father suddenly drew back the object.

"I think I am too assuming." His father said with a troubled expression, "I… You should choose for yourself, Soren, when you can make that choice." He pulled open the desk and placed the iron pendant in the drawer reverently. Then after a moment of thought, he also put the beads from the monks in the drawer. "You will choose one day, Soren, when you are able." Shaka heard his father say.

"Papa, my present!" The two years old Shaka objected none too seriously. His father laughed and gently patted his small head.

Before Shaka's third birthday could come around, his father had died. The monks brought the now orphaned child to live with the Dalai Lama. They gave him another string of beads: a hundred and eight perfectly round and smooth jade beads strung together with bright red silk cord, resting in his hand like liquid light. But Shaka suddenly remembered the beads and pendant lying in the desk drawer.

By the side of the Dalai Lama, Shaka quickly assumed the role of a living god. He can speak Pali and Sanskrit with effortless rhythm; he could change the direction of wind storm and call down rain in scored days; he could perceive things well beyond mortal perception, even though his eyes were almost always closed. Everyone in Dharamsala hailed Shaka as Shakyamuni reborn again, but Shaka himself remembered that choice still waiting to be made. He could not forget his father; he could not forget the man who called him Soren and wanted him to have a torch and a star.

"Your Holiness, how can one make a choice?" Shaka once asked the lord of Dharamsala.

"To make a choice, you must first understand that you would choose from." The Dalai Lama replied thus.

Shaka thought he understood well the philosophy wrapped up in those one hundred and eight jade beads, but he knew nothing of the torch and the star. He began to look through his father's books and notes, hoping for some understanding. The seemingly endless papers were filled with strange names and words: Marx, Engel, Keynesian cycle, macroeconomics, and whatnot. Even though English was a familiar language to him, he still understood none of it. He could only guess that his father's books describe a world that he had never seen, a world outside the incorruptible sanctuary of Dharamsala.

Shaka wanted to see that world. Perhaps it was a child's curiosity, perhaps it was dissatisfaction with his own ignorance, or perhaps it was the want to truly understand his father, but Shaka much desired to see the world outside. Thus following a few older monks on business trips, Shaka went to see for himself the rest of India. That year, he was five years old.

On that journey, Shaka finally opened his eyes. He saw many things that only eyes can see. He saw that the workers in New Delhi were all very dark, though he could not guess whether it was because of too much sun or too much coal dust. Their rare smiles revealed discoloured and rotting teeth. In the dark back alleys, those classed as "Untouchables" huddled away from the sun. Fishermen by the river Ganges caught more bodies than fish in their nets.

That was the world in father's books, Shaka thought. But it only made him even more confused. When he returned to Dharamsala, he suddenly realized that everything around him seemed worlds away to be real. His bowls were made from the finest black porcelain, painted with bright colours and real gold dust. The cushions and drapes in his room were all gold coloured silk. On the altar incense from the south sea worth its weight in gold burned inconspicuously. How was it that he never noticed such things before? Suddenly he had an urge to cry.

He bowed his head and saw the one hundred and eight jade beads hanging about his neck. When he was in New Delhi, there was a street vendor who stared at those beads and said hungrily, "By Buddha, that is fine jade! They will feed my family for a whole year!"

Shaka ripped the beads from his about his neck, as if the beautiful jade burned him. He walked over to his father's old desk and pulled open the drawer. The pendant was still there. He took it in his hand, and stared at the black wrought iron. Finally, tears filled his eyes.

The Dalai Lama stepped in his room then. Seeing Shaka in tears he asked with shock, "Shaka, my child, why so upset?"

"Your Holiness," Shaka tried to contain the sudden grief as he said, "I saw many things that I wish I would never see. Why are there so many pains in this world, Your Holiness?"

"The world is indeed full of grief, my child. Only after you understand the brief frivolity of this physical world, can you depart from all those pains and troubles."

"But so much grief seems unnecessary." The blue-eyed child said. "Why do some people live so richly, while others barely have enough to eat? Why are some respected since their births, while others become 'untouchables'???"

The Dalai Lama said after a moment of silence, "Because it is tradition; it has been thus for hundreds and thousands of years. The wisdom of the Buddha can lead people's hearts away from the troubles of society, but it cannot change this society. That is neither His will nor His purpose."

"Is there no way to change society?" Shaka's voice turned childishly eager. "There must be a way to change this world so everyone is equal, all the wealth belongs to everyone, and everyone will have all that they need."

The Dalai Lama's brow suddenly furrowed, and a rare disquiet lodged in his eyes. "Shaka," He asked quietly, "What have you been learning, Shaka?"

Shaka himself was shocked by his words. He suddenly realized that he was beginning to understand his father's books. Faint red coloured his snow white face, and he clenched tightly the pendant of wrought iron in his palm.

After what seemed like an eternity, the Dalai finally sighed and said, "Is there a way? I do not know, Shaka. Perhaps there is a way to reshape the world as you say, but it would come with a prize. In this brief world everything comes with a prize." He turned eastward, as if looking across the solid wall to something beyond. "You know what is on the other side of the mountain, Shaka?"

"Tibet, Your Holiness, our homeland."

The Dalai Lama nodded. "Tibet, Shaka. When I was young, the communists came to Tibet. They said they will liberate Tibet; they said they will make everyone equal; they say they will ensure that everyone has everything he needs."

"Then, did they do as they say?" Shaka asked.

The Dalai Lama neither nodded nor shook his head. He seemed immersed in memories. " 'Don't read any more scriptures!' They told us. In their schools children learn how to struggle against their perceived enemies. 'Don't go to the Buddha anymore!' They said. They made people plough the earth and build roads from sunrise to sundown. Did they do what they promise? I cannott say, my child. Perhaps a little. But even if they give every one plenty to eat, we would still have lost too much. Across the mountains, Shaka, there is a godless place. There Buddha's wisdoms are barred. Do you think a world like that is a world without grief, or even a world without much grief?"

"I… I do not know."

"Shaka, my child, if you can never listen to the Buddha's words and never use his wisdom to help you understand this world, do you think you can attain Nirvana?"

After a moment Shaka replied, "I do not think I can, Your Holiness."

The Dalai Lama smiled at him, "I know, Shaka. It is the same with all of us here." He picked up the string of jade beads that Shaka had thrown away in haste and gently replaced the beads on the boy's neck. "Do not lose hope, my child. Let the wisdom of our Holy One guide you.

When the Dalai Lama left, Shaka replaced the pendant of torch and star back in the desk. That moment, he knew Shaka had made a decision.


	8. Juxtaposition Part 3

It was the beginning of 1972 and Shaka was barely six years old. Words had reached Dharamsala that General Zhang Guohua, chief military commander of Tibet, finally left Tibet for good. The people of Dharamsala cared little for Zhang's departure, but when they heard that the child named Mu also left Tibet, the small city of Dharamsala raised hell. Everyone had heard of the young Living Buddha; they believed him to be the last pillar of faith in Tibet. Now even he was gone. Surely it was a communist conspiracy! People talked and feared; the small child far away stirred up much forgotten passion.

When a few young men came to discuss this with the Dalai Lama, Shaka was there also.

"He is not in Tibet any more, Your Holiness! Heavens! Who know what they communists did to that poor child?" A young man named Dechen said angrily, "We are so very worried, Your Holiness. We think we should bring the child back to Tibet, or even bring him here by your side. Do you think it's wise, Your Holiness? Will you grant us your blessing?"

The Lord of Dharamsala was not much older than the hot-blooded young men before him, though much wiser. For a long time he looked conflicted and he did not speak.

The young man Chodan standing beside him added hurriedly, "We would be very careful, Your Holiness, and we will not confront them openly. The child will be in Dharamsala before they even realize anything. I am confident that we can do this, Your Holiness. We have accomplished more difficult tasks than this." Chodan may have been young, but he was calm, intelligent, bold but meticulous. He had been in charge of the Free Tibet movement for many years, and he had done many tasks to be marveled at.

Finally, the Dalai Lama said with a sigh, "Of course I have faith in you, Chodan. 'Tis true, we really should bring the child to Dharamsala. He simply is not safe living with them. But Chodan, what if the child would not go with you? After all, he has been living with General Zhang for many years now."

"We will try to persuade him..." Chodan said hesitantly.

Dechen suddenly interrupted and said, "Excuse me for saying so, Your Holiness, but he is only a small boy. We can always just take him and try to change his mind later."

IT was then that five-years old Shaka stood up. "That is not true," He said.

Everyone looked at him uncomprehendingly. "He is powerful," Shaka said, as if discussing a very old friend rather than what should be a perfect stranger. He flicked his wrist and sent an incense burner on the table levitating in the air. Then he said, "He can do things like this as well as I can, if not better. If it is his will, he can be more problematic than all the armies you might encounter between here and Chengdu."

Ignoring the astounded silence, Shaka continued calmly, "Please let me accompany Chodan, Your Holiness. I think I can bring the child back to Dharamsala. I want to meet him; he is important to be, I can feel it."

The Dalai Lama sighed again before saying, "If you wish, then go with them, my child. You must find your own fate, for its path seems beyond my sights, Shaka."

Chodan and the others started to prepare for the journey very soon. They spent a long time studying maps, contacting people in Tibet and even Sichuan that might assist them. They also spent a long time assembling small arms. Once Shaka passed by while they were putting together some fire bombs. Chodan was uncomfortable as he observed Shaka's reaction, but the boy said nothing.

A week later, they left Dharamsala. Chodan, Dechen, Nima, Norbu, all young and respected soldiers. By their side was the young Shaka, golden haired and white skinned like a porcelain doll.

When they arrived in Chengdu winter was still clinging on stubbornly; the air was chilled and moist. To the warriors of Dharamsala, Chengdu was a city stranger than the moon. The streets were crowded with vehicles: cars, bikes, tricycles, and wheelbarrows; beside the streets buildings taller than the Potala Palace loomed. The people spoke as if they were singing; every word leaped and turned. They never looked like they were in a hurry, but they still moved like the wind. The Tibetans did already exchange their old wears for normal Han Chinese clothes, but they still felt that they were way too conspicuous.

While they rested in a small eatery, they quietly discussed the next part of their plan.

"The general Zhang Guohua is in Chengdu," Chodan said, "But we don't know where he lives. It might prove difficult to find out without raising suspicion.""That is no problem," Shaka said lightly, "I can find the child."

Chodan was shocked for a moment, then he said quickly, "Then we shall go as soon as it's dark, Your Holiness."

When night slowly settled over the city, when the streets were almost empty, they left their resting place. Shaka was leading in the front. His eyes were still closed, but he had no trouble navigating the maze like streets and alleys of Chengdu. They walked for almost an hour and finally arrived at an extremely narrow street. On one side of the street there was an ancient residence. Red brick walls loomed tall. On both side of the wooden gate painted red, paper lanterns faintly illuminated the street. Past the wooden gate, the already narrow street narrowed even more into an alley just wide enough for two people to pass side by side. It was hidden in the shadows of the looming walls on both sides.

Chodan left Nima and Norbu further down the street to keep watch, while he, Dechen and Shaka went up to the door. The wooden door was only half closed, and one could see the courtyard behind the door. The courtyard was filled with plants: the still brown and dry tomato vines, the newly sprung bean sprouts; and pea plants nearing bloom. Even though the plants thrived, they still seemed out of place. One would expect such a courtyard to be filled with hibiscus or rhododendron, but not farm products. Shaka approached the door without hesitation, but before he could push open the door, a child of five or six emerged from behind the door. His purpled hair gleamed silver beneath the moonlight. For a long moment no one spoke.

"Are you looking for my father?" The violet-haired child asked with a smile, "He is not home right now. Do you wish to wait for him inside? Or you can leave a message with me."

"We are here to see you, Master Mu." Dechen said eagerly.

The child blinked, then said with dawning recognition, "I see now, you are from Tibet? From Lhasa?"

Dechen and Chodan exchanged a look, then Chodan nodded.

"Come in, come in!" Mu said warmly, pushing open the door. "You must be tired, coming all this way! Please come in for a cup of tea and some food, how is that? Papa said I must be a good host for friends from Tibet."

Dechen quickly took Mu's small hand and said, "Thank you for the kindness, Master Mu, but we must leave quickly. We don't have much time."

"Go?" Mu seemed uncomprehending, "Go where?"

Chodan came and stood by his side. "We are here to take you home, Your Holiness." He said in a low voice.

A wary look now over took over the boy's face. He drew back his hand and backed up two steps. "Go home?" He said, "Am I not at home right now? I am not going anywhere."

"Master Mu, you are a living Buddha, the enlightened one's favored child, how can you stay with them communists?" Dechen said impatiently.

"You are not safe here, Your Holiness!" Chodan added with emphasis.

Mu's brow furrowed and his voice lifted with anger, "You are speaking nonsense!"

"They speak truth," Shaka suddenly opened his eyes and looked directly at Mu, "You should not be here; you don't belong here. I have seen it, and so have you. Come, leave with us."

Mu's green eyes narrowed. "No!" He said, "Why are you saying this about me? You do not belong with those people behind you either. I know it, and you know it too." His words sounded childish, but one could not ignore his serious expression.

Suddenly Nima and Norbu rushed towards them from down the street. "There is a car coming this way!" Nima shouted, "We have to leave now."

"You should indeed leave." Mu's voice was still polite, but colder.

Chodan seemed hesitant, but Dechen stomped his foot and cried, "You will have to forgive me later, Your Holiness." Then he grabbed Mu's arms.

"Let go!" Mu shouted.

Suddenly an invisible hand pulled Dechen back and threw him towards the wall. At this moment Shaka moved. Dechen never collided with the wall; he stopped in midair then slowly fell to the ground. What happened then no one saw clearly. There was only a blinding light. Wind howled and whirled in the narrow street. When everything stilled Mu was leaning against the wall. Shaka's white jade beads wrapped around his wrist like shackles, sealing whatever power he called on before. Shaka stood beside him, pale and short of breath.

"We should go." Shaka said.

Chodan took Shaka in his arms and shouted at Dechen, "You take the other one. Let's go!"

Dechen nodded and lifted Mu up. "Let go of me!" Mu screamed, but could not throw him to the wall again.

They only just turned when they heard the enraged cry thundering from behind, "Put the child down!"

General Zhang Guohua leapt from his car like an angry leopard. A few young men in full military gear stood beside him, guns hoisted high, faces full of bewilderment and wrath. "I don't care and who you are and what you want, but put the child down!" Zhang shouted, "If you have something against me just take it up with me. How can you do this to a child so young?"

Almost reflexively, Dechen put his hand right beside Mu's neck. "Don't come any closer." He said quietly.

The threat was simple but effective. Zhang stilled. The soldiers beside him dared not to move, even with their guns. Zhang was about to say something once more, but he suddenly clenched his chest with a pained look. A stifled groan escaped his throat and his knees gave way.

"Papa!" Mu screamed and started to struggle again.

The soldiers beside him rushed to his side. "Zhang! General!" They cried.

"Now!" Chodan yelled.

Norbu pulled an object from his pocket and threw it towards the wooden door with all his might. A great explosion shook the very ground they stood upon; then flames sprang in the darkness of the night and cut the narrow street in two. Behind the dancing red, Dharamsala's champions fled into the shadows of walls and alleys.

They fled ever westward. When they were still in Sichuan they journeyed under moon and stars and spent the day hiding in the households of various contacts. After they stepped into Tibetan soil, Chodan left loose the breath he had been holding all these while. The group started traveling by daylight. When night fell Chodan would knock open the door of any Tibetan and ask for lodging. He never doubted that the Tibetans would welcome them without reserve. Indeed, all the good people of Tibet were overjoyed to have the messengers of the great Dalai Lama and the living Buddha staying in their humble homes.

Where ever they stayed, Tibetan people would gather at night. Piously and ardently they sat by the feet of Shaka and listened to him explain the scriptures. They called him Holy One and Great One with ecstatic adoration. All of them remembered the violet haired Mu as well. They called him "Master Mu" or "Your Holiness" just as before, but now Mu no longer smiled, only stared at them coldly.

One night they stayed in the home of a woman in her twenties named Dazhu. She was the only one living inside a spacious family house, seeing how all her younger brothers were off with the army. As usual, Dazhu gathered many to hear Shaka speak.

After all the people dispersed, Shaka sat down beside Mu. "You should stop struggling in vain with those beads!" Shaka said. That was the first thing he said to Mu since that night in Chengdu. "If you would not let go of your hatred and your prejudice, they will bind you forever."

Mu gave him a sideway glance, then the boy said softly but scornfully, "You mean, as long as I don't follow your ideology, I would be imprisoned like a common miscreant." He gave the string of jade beads wrapped around his wrist a vicious tug. The red silken cord was tough like steel , adding more red to his already bloody wrist.

Shaka ignored the jab in his words. He only held a yellowed book to Mu. Another glance, and Mu said with a light laugh, "I have read that.""But you did not understand it." Shaka insisted. "If you understand Buddha's wisdom, you would not be so resentful right now."

"What is there worth understanding in that scripture?" Mu's voice was flat still, though his words were sharp like tempered steel. "The so called 'wisdom' in there, can it guard frontiers, can it build roads, can it resolve conflicts? The inaction it teaches, can it bring food to people's tables?"

Shaka answered without a moment's hesitation, "Truth, peace, understanding, those Buddha's wisdom can bring to everyone. What is food on the table compared to these?"

Mu laughed, coldly, then he turned his back towards Shaka.

The next morning, Chodan and the others left early to investigate road conditions. Dazhu stayed in the kitchen to prepare food for them. Shaka was up early, meditating as usual. Beside him, Mu seemed to be fast asleep. But suddenly, the violet-haired child jumped up. His green, green eyes shone with a frightening light. Without a word he raced outside. Shaka suddenly felt afraid. He stayed a moment, then followed. Outside the house, Mu stood beneath the indigo Tibetan sky. He looked eastward. He seemed to be looking at some faraway tragedy slowly unfolding, for his eyes were glowing with tears.

"He is dead." Mu suddenly said.

Before Shaka could react, he turned around violently and stared at Shaka. "My father, he is dead." His voice was very low. "It's you. You and those people following you. You killed him."

Shaka's brow furrowed. "We never harmed anyone." He said.

"You are ruthless murderers, only you yourselves cannot see it." Mu's voice was calm. Too calm, that it was more frightening than enraged cries. "You took me away from him. I am not there, who will take care of him, who will make him laugh? Can you not see that his health suffered and he needed me? And you still took me away from him. You killed a father with grief of losing a child."

After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Shaka finally said quietly, "I know how you feel. If it consoles, I will take the blame."

"Take the blame? Take the blame!" Mu's calm deteriorated completely. "The blame is yours! You killed him!" The forever calm and warm child now screamed hysterically, "You killed my father!"

Golden fire leaped about him. The jade beads wrapped about his wrist began to shake. Then the red silk cord snapped broken. Jade beads scattered down, like a field of white stars. Shaka snapped opened his eyes and found himself looking directly into Mu's grieved green eyes.

"You murderer." Mu murmured.

The next moment, light rushed towards him like flooding water leaping over the dike. Shaka opened his arms. About him soft light unfolded light a lotus blossom. Two walls of light met in midair. A few seconds of balance, then a roaring explosion. The earth shook as if afraid. After the blinding brightness faded, Shaka was half kneeling on the ground. His smooth brow now twisted in pain. The deep red robe could not hide the blood flowing down his arms and legs.

There was an unreadable expression on Mu's face; his eyes were two orbs of green fire. "Die, Shaka." He said, and lifted his right hand.


	9. Juxtaposition Part 4

Light gathered in the violet-haired child's palm. Then he turned his wrist. Thousands stars streaked across the still dim sky, roaring towards Shaka, still kneeling on the ground helplessly.

It would have ended thus, but a voice suddenly cried, "Wait!" Their hostess raced from the house, her braided hair and her skirt flying in the morning wind. "Wait!" Dazhu cried, "Please stop!"

Too late. The dazzling stars glided towards Shaka without halt. Dazhu raced forward, took Shaka in her arms and turned, protecting the boy with her own back. "Dazhu!" Mu exclaimed. The fire in his green eyes suddenly died. His hand reached out as if trying to grab something. A burst of wind, and then the starlight faded the moment before colliding with Dazhu's back.

After Dazhu finally calmed, she turned around and asked in a shaky voice, "Master Mu, but why? You…you wanted to hurt him! You were not like that before, Your Holiness."

Silence. Then: "He killed my father." Mu raised his voice and shouted, "He killed my father.

Dazhu's eyes widened. "Your…your father? You mean General Zhang? He… he is gone?"

"He is gone, never to return." Mu said in a low voice. He glanced at Shaka before saying with contempt, "His Holiness would say that it was well deserved, justice dealt by superior beings. The tyrant is gone and can never trouble your sacred land again. Isn't that what you all think?"

"No! No! Never!" Dazhu objected, sounding absolutely horrified at the idea Mu suggested, "How can you possibly say such a thing? We love General Zhang. If you don't believe me, ask anyone!. " He is such a good person, so kind, so compassionate, ready to help us before we even asked. Of course, the people after him were just as kind and helpful to us, so it almost seemed like he never left, but we still miss him!" His words rushed out in a torrent, slightly confused but never lacking in true passion. Tears were gathering in her eyes.

Mu turned his head to avoid her eyes. "Then why? Why this?" He asked bitterly. "Why ally yourself with the enemies of my father if you all love him such? Do you not know what they are here for? They want to chase out people like papa; they want Tibet all for themselves. If you truly loved papa, why this?"

For a long time Dazhu could not speak, only looked at the boy in front of her. Suddenly, Shaka's weak but clear voice broke the heavy silence. "Dazhu, put me down." He said.

He turned and faced west, quietly watching the grey clouds over the land west of Himalayas. Finally he said, "Dazhu, we are here because we thought that the people of Tibet wanted us here. We thought that people of Tibet want to hear the wisdom of the Buddha and His Holiness. Of course those in Dharamsala miss their native land. But if the people of Tibet are happy, if they are at peace and do not wish our intrusion, then we understand too. We will always do what the people want; that's a promise, Dazhu."

"Oh, Your Holiness! Please don't say it like this…" Dazhu buried her face in her hands, now crying openly, "Of course we want His Holiness Dalai Lama back. We prayed for his return ever since his departure. It has been so many years…"

The two children stood by her side, watching her silently. Finally Mu said with a long sigh, "What…what do people here want, Dazhu?"

"I…I don't know!" Dazhu shook her head. "Must we choose one? I… I want both of them here, General Zhang and His Holiness. How I miss them! Is it… is it really so impossible?

Silence fell once more. The sun had finally leapt into the sky, spilling watery gold across the empty highland. Faraway, there was faint singing of the shepherd.

"Who has seen, yoya,

The colours of Himalayan sky, yoya!"

* * *

**A TRAILER for **

**TWENTIETH CENTURY LEGEND: COMPROMISE**

(Silence. Black screen.)

(Then a sudden explosion, followed by a crescendo of running steps, cries, garbled words and screams.)

**Chile, 1973, was nothing short of hell itself.**

(Flashes of burning buildings, tanks rolling down the streets, prisoners surrounded by tall wire fences.)

**He was a ray of impossible light in that dark place,**

(Shot of Aiolia cutting a tow boat loose from its cargo. Without the burden, the tow boat sped away. People on the tow boat clapped and cheered.)

**burning too bright, to swift.**

(Close up of Aiolia face: he was wearing a peaceful smile.)

**_Aiolia: Goodbye, sister. Don't worry about me, I will watch you in heaven, just like brother Aioros._**

**_Voice: Aiolia!_**

(Around him the air itself suddenly burst into flame.)

(Screen fades to black.)

**Is all hope lost?**

(still black screen; sound of heavy breathing is heard.)

**_Male voice:　How long will that take?_**

**_Female voice: With the Demetrio family's wealth and influence, two days, three at most._**

**_Male voice: You are asking me to let you two stay in this concentration camp for another three days? No, no!_**

**_Female voice (softly): Don't be upset, and don't worry. I will keep him and myself safe._**

**_Male voice（fervently): No... wait for me； I will have you away from this hellhole by tomorrow's sunrise._**

(Flash of a pair of blue eyes set inside a sorrowful face framed with flowing blue hair.)

**To escape hell, one must first compromise with Satan.**

(Shot of Aiolia balling up his fists, gritting his teeth, but staying very still.)

(Shot of Saga in full Chilean army uniform, wearing a lewd smirk, though his eyes were enraged.)

**Though the end can never be guaranteed.**

(Flash of Aiolia, half naked and drenched in blood.)

(Shot of Saga slowly falling to his knees.)

**_Aiolia: It hurts, sister, it hurts!_**

**(Fade to black)**

**_Compromise: A Twentieth Century Legend _coming soon to **


	10. Compromise Part 1

1973, Chile

The day after Aioros's death, September 11, 1973, all hell broke loose in Chile. The democratically elected president Salvador Allende was deposed and murdered in the right-wing coup; long repressed but anticipated violence tore through the nation like a storm. Sanctuary did not know of this. Sanctuary had always been aware even if non-intervening in secular affairs, but this time, Sanctuary was too wrapped in its own turmoil.

Sanctuary did not know until five days later when an express air mail addressed to Aioros arrived. The letter hailed from Havana, Cuba. If one was observant enough, one would notice how the pope's young, slender hand shook uncontrollably when he saw that letter. For a long while he held the letter in silence, as if wanting to open it and read it himself, but in the end he summoned Gold Saint of Leo, the seven-year old Aiolia.

The child Aiolia used to be the exact opposite of his brother. Where his brother Aioros was quiet, reserved, perpetually calm and wise beyond his fourteen tender years; Aiolia was loud, rash, proud like a lion cub and the very image of unruliness. But in the past few days, he suddenly and utterly quieted down; he seemed to have become like his brother in demeanour. Still proud, still fierce, still unyielding, yet never uttering a word until absolutely necessary; all of Aiolia's fearsome qualities were now distilled into silence the chilling gleam of his green eyes. Many say that Aiolia was indeed of the traitor's blood: he was now a splitting image of his shameful brother! Only the one hidden behind the Grand Pope's mask knew the vast difference between the two Demetrio brothers. There was a gentle kindness, a child-like beauty and warmth in Aioros that even his chiselled face and finely sculpted torso could not hide. Aiolia's seven year old face was so lovely that the word 'cherubic' seemed an insult, yet every part of him were cold and hard like tempered steel.

It was the same steely light that now invaded those young eyes green. Aiolia knelt down and said in a low voice, "Your Holiness, I ask permission to leave Sanctuary. My family has encountered a few problems and they need my help." With that he handed the letter to the masked Grand Pope, giving the silent permission for him to read the letter.

The flowing script on the letter went:

"Aioros, my dear little one:

How are you doing lately? Have you been taking care of yourself? Did you take all your medicine on time? Don't give me the whole your body is better off without antibiotics spiel. No one is above antibiotics, little one. If you come home again hiding this wound or that, your sister will most definitely have a fit. And how is our little cub? Somehow I am not worried about him: he has you behind him. If you would look after yourself with just a quarter of the care you give to little Lia, your sister and I would have nothing to worry about.

Now, little one, I am writing to you with a serious behest. I hope by now you have heard about what happened in Chile? If not, here is a quick rundown: the right wing and the military launched a coup few days ago, with CIA support, evidently. They deposed and murdered the president Salvador Allende and took over all major government agencies. The country is a mess right now; people are dying left and right. Anyone is in danger of being arrested, tortured, and executed for no reason at all.

Salvador was a good friend of mine, and it breaks my heart that there is nothing I can to do save him now: God has received him. I still have a few close friends and relatives in Chile who are now in dire straits. I longed to fly to them and take them out of that accursed country, except my presence in Chile right now would most likely start a war. The CIA would not like to see me anywhere, least of all Chile. So your sister volunteered to go in my place. She was thinking that with her connections and wealth, she would still be able to get around in Chile. I don't know what came over me, but I agreed. I am regretting my rash decisions with all my being at this point, but your sister is already landed in that hellhole.

There is nothing else I can do other than asking you to keep watch over her. I know Sanctuary has its rules and creeds, but this is almost a life-and-death situation. Only you can help. I have complete faith in you, little one. Bring my most beloved back to me safely. Finally, I know you took down a nuclear missile at the age of five, but I still have to say this: be very careful and stay out of tanks' way! Be safe, little one.

PS: Don't let our cub in on this! Aiolia will have such a row if he knows what is going on!

Your Loving Brother

Leonardo Castille"

The Grand Pope's hand trembled once more.

"Grant me the permission to go to Chile, Your Holiness." Aiolia said once more.

"Chile is in the midst of chaos presently." The masked master of Sanctuary finally replied, "Aiolia, you are young, and inexperienced, I fear for your safety in Chile. What if I send someone else to bring your sister from Chile? Pisces Aphrodite, or Cancer Deathmask?" The Grand Pope took care not to mention Capricorn Shura.

Aiolia's face turned faintly red and lovelier than ever, but the light in his eyes was frightening. "This is a private matter, Your Holiness." He said through gritted teeth.

A long, awkward silence, then the pope sighed and said, "Go, Gold Saint Leo Aiolia. I give you my blessing and the blessing of our goddess Athena."

Thirty-two year old Aiowyn Demetrio was certainly not driving like a thirty-two year old lady right now. In a fashion resembling crazy cars chases out of cheesy movies, she swivelled down the streets like a drunken teenager. Inside her small car there were five others, all looking frightened but still determined. Behind her jeeps filled with soldiers armed to the teeth roared. There were actual bullets zipping past her.

The jeeps were pulling up. Aiowyn gritted her teeth and stepped down on the gas hard. When she saw another narrow alley poking into the main street she was on, she turned the steering wheel with all her might. The car twisted and narrowly slid down the alley. But only five minutes later she cursed: the narrow alley quickly became no more than a single person path between high walls. She had driven herself down to a dead end.

Granted, the larger jeeps were forced to stop much earlier, but the well trained soldiers were fast approaching on foot. She almost despaired. It was then the child showed up, suddenly springing out of the shadows of the alley, golden curls glimmering in the dark with a fey light. Without a word he jumped in front of the approaching soldiers.

The others were already running and disappearing into the shadowed alleys, but Aiowyn could not but halt. "Aiolia!" She exclaimed with utter shock, "Sweet Lord! Lia, get out of there right now! Run!"

"Go! Just go!" The child shouted at her, raising a small fist. Charges zapped the air about his arm, tracing bolts of blue light. "Let me take care of them. Trust me!"

Aiowyn hesitated still. How could she possibly leave her darling little brother, only seven years old, to the hands of those cruel soldiers? Aiolia gave her one last harsh glance, before turning back to the soldiers. Then light exploded inside the shadowy corner between darkened walls. Involuntarily Aiowyn backed up a few steps. The white glare was so bright that it threatened to wring tears from her eyes. She tried to catch sight of her little brother, but only glimpsed a slender shape amidst the blinding light. "Please go, sister!" She heard to small boy shout once more. So she gritted her teeth and ran as fast as she could.

She didn't know how fast she was running, didn't know if any soldiers were still behind her, nor the exact direction she was going. Jumbled thoughts burned through her head. Dock! She must go to the dock: a ship would take them all away from this accursed place; that was the original plan. But Aiolia? Was that truly Aiolia or did she hallucinate it? Leonardo said he would write a letter to get Aioros here to help her. So why was Aiolia here? Just when Aiowyn was about to get angry at Aioros for leaving their little cub in _Chile_ of all places, the said little cub suddenly appeared before her eyes.

"They are gone---for now." The child said, green eyes sharp and fathomless, "I assume you have some sort of plan to get out of this country?"

Little cub no longer, Aiowyn realized with a start. Her youngest brother was no longer the bright, happy, rash, chattering little boy that she once knew. The youngling had grown up: quiet, cold and harsh, and probably decked in golden armour just like his brother.

"We are going to the harbour," Aiowyn answered, still a little dazed, "A tow boat will pick us up and we will get out by water."

Aiolia nodded and said, "Good; let us go then. We have to move quickly."

With that he turned but Aiowyn gripped his wrist. "Why are you here, Lia?" She asked. "Where is Aioros? How can he possibly let you do this?"

Aiolia snapped his head away so quickly that he almost pulled a muscle in his neck. Adamantly he avoided his sister's eyes.

"Lia?" Aiowyn's smooth brow furrowed; instinctively she felt the air of great tragedy. "Lia, what's wrong? Why are you like this?" Suddenly she drew breath, "Lord, Lia, did something happen to Aioros?"

Still silence. Aiowyn could feel her last bits of sanity and calm, barely holding on after few excruciating days in Chile, literally crumble away at her little brother's grief. "God, Lia!" She raised her voice. "What happened to Aioros?"

"He is dead, sister." Aiolia still avoided her eyes, though his voice was perfectly flat and smooth, "Executed, rather. Because he betrayed Sanctuary and tried to kill our goddess. And sister, if you want to get out of this place, you really don't have time to be upset right now." That's all he said. Then the boy took his sister's hand in his own. Firmly he dragged his sister down the street towards the harbour.

God, is this my little cub, my sweet Lia? Aiowyn exclaimed wordlessly. How did he become so cold, so emotionless, so utterly harsh? Suddenly, she was afraid that both of her sweet, gentle brothers were gone with no returning.


	11. Compromise Part 2

Aiowyn was dazed; she could barely tell where she was going. The last few days in Chile had been fraught with danger and narrow escapes; her wits and patience were almost drained. Now, to suddenly hear her beloved brother was dead, and to see her other precious brother appear before her bearing such inconsolable grief and loneliness, that was enough to destroy whatever logical thinking she had left. She was like a broken rag doll, letting herself to be dragged by her little brother towards the harbor.

It was the report of a gun that finally shocked her out of her oblivion. Aiolia murmured beside her, "Sis, we have to run." She shuddered and suddenly woke. Angrily she reminded herself that her seven-year old baby brother was absolutely right: if she wanted to get out of Chile in one piece, she really had no time to waste with jumbled emotions. Pinning all her strength on collecting her far-flunbg emotions, Aiowyn held her brother's hand tightly and the two raced towards the harbor.

The sea was in sight, an endless field of blue broken by the innumerable ships ranging from small speedboats to kilo-toned warships. The soldiers behind her were also in sight, though Aiowyn couldn't be sure whether she was also in their sight. They seemed to be firing randomly into the crowds.

Aiowyn felt Aiolia picking up his pace; she could barely keep up. She was mostly just following him, though she kept thinking with annoyance that she really should be the one getting her little cub out of trouble's way. They wove through cars, people, and shattered pieces of buildings. Aiolia was sure-footed and seemed to know exactly where he was going. Soon they were near enough for Aiowyn to pick out the tow boat in the harbour. It was sitting there with a cargo load of coal behind it; its engine already rumbling but it was still tied to the dock. A woman stood on the cargo ship; her white dress looked stark beside the coal piled high like a small hill. She was scanning to busy quay, searching for someone.

Aiowyn instantly recognized the woman and breathed a sigh of relief. That was her husband's sister Maia Castille. Like her brother, Maia was firmly entrenched in communism: she married a man who became an administrator under Chile's Salvador Allende. After the coup she and her husband had been in extremely vulnerable positions. They were the reason Aiowyn insisted to go to Chile in the first place, though Maia seemed to play the rescuer more often than the rescued. The past few days she worked tirelessly with Aiowyn to gather endangered individuals and help them get away. If Maia was on the towboat, it must mean that the last of the people they gathered were on this last ride. The inconspicuous towboat would finally take them away from Chile to the United States.

"That way, Aiolia." Aiowyn pointed to the towboat.

Maia noticed them also and she shouted, "Quick, Aiowyn!"

The two ran quicker still and finally reached the boat. Aiolia untied the chain holding the boat to the dock before leaping to the cargo ship. Engine roaring, the boat broke away from land and moved out. It was moving slowly. Indeed no towboat tugging thousands tons worth of coal could move very fast, but speed was not the key here, inconspicuousness was.

When they jumped on board, Maia hugged her sister-in-law tightly. "You had us so worried, Aiowyn!" She cried, "Praise Mother Mary!"

"No worries, I am fine now." Aiowyn murmured.

"Indeed," Maia said half jokingly, dark eyes now twinkling, "I was worried for myself, if you must know. If I returned to Havana without you, my brother would eat me alive."

Aiowyn could not help laugh. "Everyone else on the boat?" She did not forget to ask.

Maia gave her a warm smile and answered, "Oh yes. Everyone is safe and sound. Thanks to you, Aiowyn."

"Do not celebrate yet!" Aiolia suddenly said, green eyes now stormy, "They are coming after us."

"What?" Aiowyn jumped.

Maia, on the other hand, was looking at Aiolia. "Who is he?" She asked, a little confused.

"My little brother." Aiowyn answered distractedly.

"Look, do you not see them?" Aiolia ignored that small exchange and showed no sign of interest in getting to know his family. He again wore that stormy cold expression completely unbefitting of his lovely childish face.

Even with the towboat's snail pace, they were now out of the harbor and on open water, so it was very easy to catch signs of the line of black dots slicing the horizon. Only a couple minutes later, they could all see clearly the rough outlines of speedboats and a couple small gunboats, and farther away, a gargantuan battle cruiser.

The two women looked at each other. "They are coming for us?" Maia said uncertainly.

"It can't be!" Aiowyn exclaimed, "I got this boat is from a right wing company, with paperwork and conducts from people they trust! Surely they would not…"

Her words were cut short by a loud report, then something sliced open the water and stirred up a fountain-like spray. One of the gunboats had just fired at them. The boats quickly approached. They could now see the shapes of soldiers and sunlight dancing on gleaming weapons.

Aiowyn paled. "I do not believe this!" She muttered in a tight voice, "We are so close, so close!" Maia did not speak, but her dark eyes burned.

"Let's get to the stem of the boat," Aiolia said, "And cut the cargo load loose. Without the load, the towboat can travel much faster."

"Surely not fast enough to outrun those speed boats!" Aiowyn exclaimed.

"It will be enough." Aiolia said, green eyes grim and determined.

All the people were now crowding the deck at the stem, looking back fearfully. Then a magnified boomed across the open water: "Towboat in front, towboat in front, stop immediately and surrender to our officers, stop immediately and surrender to our officers!"

"Fancy how they speak everything twice. Do they truly consider people stupid?" Maia perhaps tried to inject some humour into their present predicament, though the undertone of desperation was all too apparently. Fear hung in the air like a taut string.

Aiolia ignored all of it completely. Swiftly with sure hands he began to take apart the links and mechanisms that connected the towboat to its cargo. The clanking of metal was the only sound that broke the monotony of soldiers' warning. Then with one final bang, the towboat and its cargo broke apart. Suddenly without the load, the now burden-free towboat surged forward while the engine roared louder.

There were a few smiles, some quiet murmurs, then silence once more. It was too obvious that the speed was not quite enough to escape. Still the child Aiolia did not seem to catch the permeating despair, instead he asked seriously, "Anyone has a lighter that I can borrow?"

Someone took out one and handed it to him. The child quickly stuffed the lighter in his pocket.

"Lia, what are you doing?" Aiowyn burst out asking. She was becoming increasingly alarmed at the determined and purposeful look in Aiolia's eyes.

Aiolia did not answer the question, instead he smiled. Faint and wistful the smile was, but it was a smile nonetheless. Aiowyn paused a moment: she had thought her baby brother incapable of smiling anymore. Yet for some strange reason, that smile still chilled her heart. Instinctively she knew Aiolia was about to do something that she would surely despise.

"You will get out of here, all of you," The seven-year old child said solemnly, still smiling, "I promise."

Then he jumped. His slight form sprang into the sky, fading into the blinding light of the sun. When they recovered from the initial shock the child was already standing on the cargo ship still floating motionlessly in the midst of the ocean. He stood beside the mountain of black coal, sent one last glance their way, before turning his back towards them.

"Aiolia!" Aiowyn shouted, now deathly pale. It seemed to her that her heart had stopped beating inside her chest.

The child kept his back towards her, only raised his arm. His small hand was firmly balled into a fist; around his fist golden light gathered and wind whipped. Soon the child was entirely enveloped with a golden flame. Around his fist blue lightning crackled.

Then he struck. His fist connected with the pile of black coal. The sea itself seemed to tilt and shake. In a torrent of glowing wind, the mountain of coal turned into fine dust and swept up into the air, turning the sky black. Aiolia was barely visible in the black mist; only his curly hair glimmered gold in the darkness.

"Lia!" Aiowyn strained her eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of her little brother. Faintly she saw the little boy reached a hand into his pocket and took out something. Even in Aiowyn's present state, she instantly realized it must be the lighter and what her brother planned to do next. She wanted to scream again, but the sound died before reaching her tongue.

The wind roared more fiercely still; the thousands tons of coal turned to an interminable screen of black dust in the wind. Inside that black, Aiowyn saw her little brother turn. The towboat was already a couple kilometers away from the cargo freight, but Aiowyn could see the little child's face clearly. He was smiling: a bright, peaceful smile that seemed to make his lovely face carefree and child-like once more. Then the boy spoke, his voice clearly ringing in her ears despite the distance. "Good bye, sister," Aiolia said, "Don't be sad. I will watch you in heaven, just like brother Aioros."

With that he clicked the lighter in his hand.

Aiowyn screamed.

Nothing burns faster than fine grains of coal. At the small whisper of flame the air itself exploded. The sky turned to fire; the heated air sent out layers of shockwaves and the black water churned. The town boat was sent rocking forward even faster by the rollicking wind from the explosion. Aiowyn had stopped screaming and silence fell once more. Everyone on the towboat looked back fervently, but all they could see was a wall of flame that seemed to extend all the way to the horizon. Though they could not see anything, the sound was unstoppable. Across the wall explosions roared like thunder. After what seemed like forever, Aiowyn said quietly, "Maia, you will take care of this boat?"

"Yes, of course," Maia answered dazedly, "Wait, what… what are you doing?"

Aiowyn said through gritted teeth, "I will be damned if I just lose my little brother like this." That's all she said. Without another word she dove into the water.

The wall of fire burned bright crimson still.


	12. Compromise Part 3

III

Aiowyn was a very strong swimmer, but she could barely stay afloat amidst the chaotic mix of fire, water, hot air, and erratic currents. Everything around her felt like lava.

She swam in this chaos for what seemed like eternity, before she finally saw a small shape floating on the black water. Feeling a sudden surge of energy, she swam forward. It was indeed Aiolia. His clothes were tattered and burned, and his face was half submerged in water, waxen white without a thread of colour. Yet the smile lingered still on his tender lips, on his slender eyebrows and his long lashes. He seemed so… at peace.

He is alive, he is alive, Aiowyn told herself firmly. She hugged her little brother in her arm, forced his head above water, and swam forward with all her might. She didn't for know how long she swam, but she did notice that the water around her slowly cooled, and the glare of the flame grew dimmer. She breathed a sigh of relief when a boat came up by her side and a pair of hands dragged her out of water, but when she climbed on board the sigh froze in her throat: at least half a dozen automatic rifles were trained on her.

A tall man in shiny boots and wearing two stars on his lapels strode forward and knelt down beside her. "Came back to save the little freak, didn't you?" The man said viciously, "Want to see what damage the little freak did?"

Aiowyn looked out fearfully and saw that there were many soldiers crammed on this small speedboat. Out on the sea she could see the wreckage of the two gunboats and numerous speedboats, almost completely submerged by water. Faraway, the twenty-four gunned battle cruiser was snapped in two, sinking and smoking at the same time. Speechlessly Aiowyn hugged the boy tighter in her arms.

The man eyed her and laughed coldly. "You can't protect him, you know." He said, "You really should just pray: pray that your little freak is already dead. If he is alive, I would make sure that he regrets being born."

Watching the cruel, triumphant eyes before her, Aiowyn suddenly felt incredibly afraid. The fear twisted and churned inside her, gnawing her heart like a poisonous serpent, stealing her very breath away.

Aiowyn did not know, but she was not the only one touched by that fear. Thousands of leagues away, fifteen year old Saga tore the deep blue mask from his face and threw it against the wall in utter frustration. His face was distorted with silent agony and fear shone in his blue eyes; one would almost say that he was on the verge of tears. Saga was still young then and he would still let raw emotions rage upon his beautiful face. Many years later all woe and heartache would fade from his face, leaving only the perpetual faint shadow of sorrow upon his brow. But at that moment, Saga was only fifteen, and in many ways still a child. At that moment, he was only afraid. He had felt the Leo Saint's cosmos suddenly grew uncontrollably, burned like a dying nova, and then faded to a bare whisper. The raging cosmos had flared with such violence that, almost as if the child wanted to burn himself out, wanted to fall, to sleep forever. The fifteen year old Saga was dead scared that he was about to lose the child Aiolia just like he lost Aioros.

But Saga never allowed himself to lose without a fight, and that was not about to change now. For all his fear, he would save Aiolia, or die trying. Grimly he tore the Grande Pope's robe from his body and threw on some inconspicuous street clothes. Then he concentrated and willed himself away, away from Sanctuary and to the side of the child he loved like a brother. With a flash of gold he was gone.

Saga traced Aiolia's failing cosmos and finally the two kept in a prison just outside downtown Santiago. It was once a stadium of sort not too far from the heart of Santiaga, now converted to nothing short of a concentration camp. Three layers of tall barb wire fences surrounded the place. The prison was choking with throngs of people, many of them disgruntled, angry looking young men, though there was no shortage of women and children.

T he security was tight, though Saga only scarcely took notice. He quickly found the siblings. The two of them were alone in a small, bare room. Aiowyn sat in the corner, back leaning against the wall. Her eyes were closed; she was fast asleep with utter exhaustion, though her slender arms still wrapped firmly around the little boy sitting in her lap. The child was not awake either. His head lolled on his shoulder, and his skin was bloodlessly pale.

Saga could feel his heart shattering to thousands pieces inside his chest. He knelt beside Aiowyn and touched a trembling hand to her face. "Sister, sister…"He whispered over and over again, "Wake up, please wake up."

Though Aiowyn was exhausted, she slept light, for her mind was fraught with fear. Thus even in her sleep she heard the voice whispering "sister, sister", the clear, rich voice of someone just stepping into manhood. That's my Aioros! She secretively smiled and despite her exhaustion she forced her eyes open. "My brother!" She murmured, but when she opened her eyes she did not see Aioros, but a blue-haired, wiry youth.

The youth flinched and backed away from her; his hands that were holding her face drew back as if burnt and he looked frightened. "Sis…" Then he swallowed the rest of the word and greeted quietly with lowered voice, "Mrs. Castille."

Aiowyn looked at him and said with a comforting smile, "Why this formality, Saga? Call me sister, like you have always done, little one."

Saga seemed uncertain. "May… may I still call you sister?" He asked brokenly.

"Of course, little one, why ever not?"

Saga turned paler than before at her word and he quickly lower his head. "Nothing…" He muttered, "I… I have to get you two out of this place… We will go through a dimension wormhole. It will easily take us far, far away from here, though it may be a little dangerous. You must hold on to me tightly at all time."

He raised his hand, ready to slice open the space-time fabric to create an escape route, but Aiowyn gently but firmly pulled down his hand. "No, Saga." She said.

Saga stood there frozen, staring at the woman before him.

"See, Saga, there is only twenty something guards here to almost a hundred fifty prisoners, of which half are young, battle-hardened men. Do you know why the guards don't worry?" Aiowyn explained in a quiet voice, "Because those young men also have their wives, sisters, children and parents here. The guards made it very clear that if anyone raises any trouble, everyone else in this prison will pay for it dearly. They are holding people hostage against each other. "

After a long silence Saga said, almost desperately, "But you have no one here. Just you and Aiolia."

"Saga, my precious, I can't possibly let those people suffer more because of me," Aiowyn murmured, "They have suffered enough as it is."

"You will not leave then? Just let yourself and Aiolia stay here to... to…." Saga wanted to say "die", but somehow the word would not leave his throat.

Aiowyn paused a moment, brow furrowed with thought, before saying, "No; I think I have a way. Go to Miami and find my parents; tell them what happened. They have wealth and influence; they know people. I will be damned if they don't have connections to someone in the Chilean military command. They will make sure we are released rather than escapees."

Saga looked dubious, and at last he asked quietly, "How long will that take?"

Aiowyn turned her head slightly, "With the name Demetrio, two days…"

"Please don't lie to me, sister." Saga said softly.

"Three days at most," Aiowyn gritted her teeth, "And I swear I am not lying to you, Saga."

"You are asking me to leave you two in this purgatory for three days?" Saga seemed paler than ever, and his hands curled into tight fists. "I can't, I just can't."

"There…" Aiowyn sighed, "There is truly no better way, Saga. I can't leave in a way that will surely jeopardize everyone else here."

"I will find a way," Saga said and rose suddenly, blue eyes glittering in the midst of his pale, pale face, "I will find a way to take you and every other prisoner here out of Chile. By tomorrow's sunrise, I swear to you!"

For a long while Aiowyn was too stunned for words. Finally she murmured, "It would be wonderful, of course. But Saga, my precious, please do not put yourself in harm's way."

Saga did not seem to hear her, "I will go now, but I shall return as soon as I may. Wait for me, sister. And keep Aiolia safe. Don't let him... let him hurt himself again."

"What?" Aiowyn exclaimed, hugging her still unconscious brother tighter. "What do you mean?"

Saga smiled mirthlessly, "He could have saved everyone, including himself, if only he was not so set on destroying so many ships. But no, he wanted to burn himself out. He was ready to die with them; I felt it. He… Watch him, sister."

With one last look he was gone in a flash of golden light, as sudden as he had come. Aiowyn watched him, and fear gripped her heart. That look in Saga's eyes, it was exactly the same as the chilling light that lit Aiolia's eyes as he jumped beside the mountain of coal. Silently she wondered: Saga, are you ready to die with them too?

It was then Aiolia opened his eyes. "Sis," He murmured blearily, "Where are we, sister?"

"Where are we, sister?" He asked again. "And… why are you here? Why are you with me?" The child seemed to slowly remember what happened. "Why are you not on the towboat? Where are the others!" He sat up a little and tried to push away Aiowyn's arms. Aiowyn only tightened her hold, and in his exhausted, drained state Aiolia could not pull away from her.

"Listen to me, Aiolia Nicolas Demetrio." Aiowyn whispered beside the boy's ear.

The child stilled. His sister almost never called him anything but "Lia" or "cub"; now that she used his full name, she must be very, very serious. "Listen, Aiolia," She continued, "I came back for you. And while I may have saved you from drowning in the sea, I could not prevent our being taken prisoner. We are right now in a prison camp with around a hundred and fifty others; with many young men and women, older people and even children like you. We are in the heart of enemy's land, guarded by soldiers armed to the teeth and more wandering outside down the streets of Santiago. Do you understand, Aiolia?"

Aiolia was silent; for a long while he seemed to be concentrating only on taking slow, trembling breaths. Finally he said in a teary voice, "I am sorry, sister. You shouldn't have come back for me. I… I am sorry I did this to you, sister."

Aiowyn looked at him straight in the eyes and continued, "Aiolia, I do not need to lie to you. The prisons in Chile are not pretty places. People are tortured, raped, executed on the simple whims of officers. Tell me, Aiolia, if you see such things, what would you do?"

"I won't let it happen, not as long as I am drawing breath!" The child exclaimed, his hands slowly but firmly curled together.

"And how can you stop it from happening, Aiolia? " Aiowyn asked.

The boy bit down on his lip and said with a resolute light gleaming in his green eyes, "It doesn't matter; I can still fight. They will have to step over my dead body."

"No they will not!" Aiowyn suddenly raised her voice. "I am telling you, Aiolia, no matter what you see, no matter what they do to me or to anyone, no matter how many they torture and kill, you will do nothing!"

Aiolia looked up, mouth slightly agape. He was shocked and utterly confused.

Aiowyn took a long breath, before saying calmly, "There will be times, my Aiolia, when your beliefs are at odds with those far more powerful than you. In times like these, if you are absolutely certain that you do not err, then you will fight, yes, but you must also protect yourself. Do not place yourself in front of a tank when you obviously cannot stop it! How can you be any good to anyone or any cause if you are dead? Speak nothing, stay safe, watch all the injustices unfold if you must; work silently and quietly, save what you may. But if you surrender yourself to death, you can do nothing more to right the wrongs. Yes, there are causes worth dying for, Aiolia, but the truly courageous live for their causes."

Aiolia stared at his sister for a long time, before lowering his eyes to hide the welling tears. "I understand now, sis." He whispered. "I am sorry that I have been such a fool."

Aiowyn was about to say something in consolation, but she was cut short when two soldiers suddenly appeared in front of her. "You little twerp, Captain Garcia wants to have a nice chat with ya'!" One said while smiling wickedly, the other grabbed a fistful of Aiolia's golden curls and hauled the child away from his sister.

Aiowyn jerked but checked herself at the last moment. She let go of her brother with only a muffled groan. Aiolia said nothing.

The truly courageous live for their causes, he told himself silently, and allowed himself to be dragged away.


	13. Compromise Part 4

After leaving the hellish concentration camp, Saga strangely did not hurry. For all his anger, his fear, and his burning desire to wrest the Demetrio siblings away from that purgatory, he knew he must stay level-headed. So he walked slowly and pondered. By the time he reached the harbor of Santiago, a plan was fully fledged in his mind. He knew exactly how to take an entire camp worth of prisoners away from the guards and the troops that patrolled Santiago incessantly. He also knew that he could never do it alone. He needed warriors by his side to wrest a hundred fifty people from an entire nation's army; he needed Sanctuary's gold saints.

Except none of them would serve him, but they would bow to the crown he had stolen. Saga's beautiful face distorted again as irony of the situation touched him. He had killed his revered teacher and his beloved Aioros for that crown, now he must save these Aioros had left in his care, again with the power of that crown.

When he returned to Sanctuary, he barely had time to put on his robe and mask, before the gate to the Grand Pope's hall burst open, revealing two figures fully clad in brilliant gold. "Greeting, Cancer Deathmask, Pisces Aphrodite." He said, trying not to let uncertainty leak into his voice. Now more than ever he needed to command them. "It is well that you are here, for I was going to call you."

"Greeting, Your Holiness," Aphrodite said, his song-like voice gaining an ungraceful snarl, "Care to explain the body upon Star Hill, Your Holiness?" A blood red rose was between his slender fingers, poised to strike.

Saga was silent for a moment, before saying, "Star Hill is forbidden to all but the Pope."

"Which is why you deserve death for sullying the holy place with your dirty feet," Aphrodite said coldly, "You are certainly not our Lord Shion. We have been watching you all this while. Try as you might, you sound nothing like him."

"You killed him, didn't you?" Deathmask growled, his fists already raised, "Not only did you kill Lord Shion, you also tried to kill our Goddess, and you framed Aioros. Didn't you? Aioros… To think, for a moment I actually believed he was a traitor…Take off that mask right now or I will take it off your dead body, you bastard!" His voice had risen to an enraged cry on the verge of tears near the end.

Slowly Saga removed the mask, and threw it aside. He raised his head and met the shocked eyes of two younger saints squarely. "I killed Lord Shion;" He said calmly, "I raised my hand against our Goddess; I framed Aioros. I deserve the darkest pits of hell. You can have my head after tomorrow's sunrise. But if you loved Aioros, you will let me live and you will help me, just for today."

Only half an hour later, Saga was back in the prison camp in Santiago. He was dressed in full Chilean military uniform, long blue hair hidden beneath the hat and the thick green coat. A long, gleaming rifle was slung across his left shoulder, and his hands were primly gloved. He even had all the identifications and paper works, if someone ever doubted the authenticity of this new face. Saga paced the prison camp hoping for a good imitation of that strutting walk he had seen. When he saw someone dressed of higher rank he raised his hand in flawless salutes. Inside he was disgusted with the persona he had adopted, but he told himself repeatedly that it was necessary.

He went over to the room he visited in the afternoon. To his utter horror, Aiolia was not there; a forlorn Aiowyn sat on the ground hugging her knees silently. When he first stepped near she looked up terrified, then seeing his blue bangs she sighed, half with relief, and half with worry.

"Oh Saga!" She said, eyeing the green military uniform he wore.

Saga asked quietly, "Where is Aiolia, sister?"

Aiowyn bit her bottom lip and stayed silent.

"Sister!" Saga's voice rose and fell again, trembling and shivering, "Where… where is our little cub?"

"The soldiers, they took him away," Aiowyn said with lowered eyes, "He is probably at the central courtyard, where the soldiers usually gather in the evening."

Saga didn't say another word, only turned and tried to rush out, but Aiowyn grabbed his wrist firmly. "Saga, I implore you!" She cried in a hushed voice. "We have a hundred fifty prisoners here, with women and children as young as my Lia. We are also in the middle of Santiago: should there be any serious up surge, the entire Chilean military will bear down on us in less than thirty minutes. Saga, please do not risk people's lives for my little brother. He is strong in body and in spirit; he will survive."

Saga was silent for a long moment, but finally he forced a bitter smile and said, "Everyone here will leave Chile safely. I promise, sister."

With that he gently pulled his hand free and headed to the central courtyard. The courtyard was no more than a piece of sun-browned field right in front of the commander's office, surrounded on three sides with tall barbwire fences. Yet for all of its bland austerity, the courtyard looked more like a party ground at the moment. At least half of the guards were crowded in the courtyard, some standing, some sitting or reclining. Most were laughing and pointing as if enjoying some spectacle, though there were a few that seemed unhappy.

Aiolia was indeed there, kneeling in the center of the courtyard. They had stripped him of his shirt and tied his hands tautly behind his back with steel cables. His wrists were a bloody mess. The strange angle his upper arms made could only mean that his shoulders were dislocated. A long, black whip held by a rough hand rose and fell upon his tender back rhythmically, sending up sprays of red and adding more welts to his lacerated back.

Saga could feel something explode inside him; all the blood rushed to his head. He raised his hand, ready to send a Galaxian Explosion crashing into those cruel soldiers. But at the last second Aiowyn's words flashed in his mind, and he clenched his right wrist with his left hand. His grip was so tight that he nearly crushed his own wrist, though in his enraged state he could not feel the pain.

His flaring cosmos was not missed by Aiolia. The child jerked his head and looked his direction. For a brief moment their eyes met. The child's green orbs were dark and made hazy with pain and his gaze unfocused. Aiolia would not scream nor cry, but he could not keep the excruciating torment from his eyes. Upon seeing Saga's bloodless face Aiolia tried to smile, a brief and brave smile that never quite reached his haunted eyes.

Saga knew he couldn't let this go on. It mattered not how many lives he was risking, but he simply could not stand there and watch a whip slice open Aiolia's back again and again. Taking a deep breath to calm his boiling blood, he stomped into the courtyard as loud as he could. He went straight to the middle-aged man sitting in a chair in front of Aiolia who could only be the captain.

"Sir, I finished one round of inspection. Everything was regular, sir." Saga shouted in the best Spanish he could manage.

The interruption did exactly what he wanted. Everyone paused in their laughing and jeering and turned their eyes to him. The whip finally stayed its vicious motion. The captain eyed him and said with a waft of annoyance, "Are you new here? We do not have the habit of reporting unless something is actually wrong."

"Sorry sir," Saga said, "I was just transferred here." Desperately he looked for something else to say to stay their attention, though he couldn't find any words. But the officer seemed interested enough to pursue further conversation.

"You are not Chilean, are you?" The captain asked. "Your Spanish is atrocious."

"I am a mercenary, sir." Saga replied out of the top of his head.

Thankfully, it seemed that there were indeed mercenaries in Chile. The captain only asked, "So where are you from actually?"

"South Africa, sir," Saga said, "I am an Afrikaner, sir."

"Yes, yes," The captain wrinkled his nose, "I can hear Germanic accents all over. If all is well, you can go back to your post." With that he seemed ready to return to his bloody entertainment.

"But sir, all seems well, but… but I noticed something strange, sir." Saga was desperate to keep the attention. "It… it seems suspicious, sir. Perhaps you should come and take a look."

The captain stared at him for a long time, before a leering smiled appeared on his face. "It's… funny how you don't mention something suspicious in the beginning, son." He said in a musing voice, "You know what I think, son? I think there is nothing suspicious. I think you are just trying to stay here and watch the kid."

With that he stood up and walked over to Aiolia. He pulled the child up by his arm, wrenching the dislocated shoulder. Surprised, Aiolia let out a gasp of pain. The man pushed the child close to Saga and said, "You have been staring at the kid out of the corner of your eyes the entire time. Don't think I haven't noticed."

Saga stiffened, and his fingers slowly curled. He did not speak, only concentrated all his willpower on not reaching out to Aiolia and taking the child in his arms.

"Well? Ya' taking a good look?" The captain mocked. "Is the kid as pretty as you imagined? Cabrito lindo, no?"

Saga had no idea how he should respond, though he was determined to find some response to buy more time. So he said, "Yes sir, he is a very pretty child."

At that the captain laughed uncontrollably. All the gathered soldiers were roaring with laughter. "Yes, yes, very pretty child," The captain now said with a lewd smile, "And delicious too, no doubt. Well, if you are into that sort of thing, which I suppose you are. Say, sonny, would you happen to have some Greek blood?"

Saga was confused, though he was glad for this lengthening conversation. So he answered, "I am quarter Greek, sir, from my mother's side."

"Only a quarter?" The captain mocked on, "With the way you were looking at that boy, I would imagine you are a born and bred Greek." Laughter roared louder all around them. Saga forced a few barks of dry, awkward laughter too.

The captain turned to a guard beside him and said, "Take the kid inside and clean him up; give him the collar on my desk too." The guard grinned and pulled Aiolia away.

Saga gave a small, startled jerk. The captain turned him and said jeeringly, "No worries, we won't hurt your little pet. We will just clean him and bring him right over to you. Who am I to deny my good soldier a little comfort in bed? You can have him tonight, as long as you give a good report tomorrow morning." Again the crowd was rocked with lewd laughter.

Saga finally understood what they were laughing about all this while, and he blushed furiously with shame and rage. The captain clapped his shoulder like a friendly mentor, saying, "No need to blush, son; it's nothing to be ashamed of. So what if your taste is a little… unique?"

Saga clenched his fists so hard that he drew blood from his palm. Just then the guard returned with Aiolia in tow. The child was drenched from head to toe. His shorts were plastered to his thin legs and dripping water. The pale red mix of blood and gleamed on his back and on his arms. A dog collar complete with bell and name tag was wrapped tightly on his neck, and the guard was dragging him along with the leash. The child's face was bright crimson, looking utterly humiliated and enraged. He tried to struggle against the leash, but only managed to make every breath more difficult.

Amidst incessant laughter and snicker, the captain passed the leash to Saga. "All yours." He said with a wicked grin.

Trembling, Saga took Aiolia in his arms. The child buried his head on Saga's shoulder and began to cry. Aiolia had never cried in front of people: not when the old town barber he adored passed away, not when he snapped three rib bones in a training session, not even when they announced his brother dead. Now he was crying openly before his tormentors.

Listening to Aiolia's choked sobs, the last of Saga's resolve to stay calm shattered into a million grains of dust. He raised his eyes and looked into the crowd of still jeering soldiers. "Go to hell," He said vehemently, "Every single one of you."

Light exploded. The next second, the entire prison was aglow with brilliant golden fire.


	14. Compromise Part 5

The captain fell down dead before he knew what happened. Same could be said for many others, though there were more than half a dozen soldiers left standing, and they all reached for their rifles. The prison camp was astir. The guards not at the courtyard were either rounding up the prisoners or running towards the center courtyard. Even Saga could not keep all of them subdued.

Aiolia had stopped crying and now hissed in his ears, "Put me down! I can help!" But Saga simply ignored him.

The situation grew worse by the second. Saga was about to despair when a sudden rumble was heard above them. A commercial passenger aircraft was hovering right above the prison camp, defying all known laws of physics. Then the plane began to lower slowly. A cold wind wafted into the camp, twirling purple shadows. The air was suddenly filled with blood coloured roses. Saga breathed a sigh of relief: finally Aphrodite and Deathmask had arrived.

Only twenty minutes later, all the guards were either dead or subdued and all one hundred and fifty plus prisoners were loaded onto the plane. When Aphrodite and Deathmask saw Aiolia, both drew a sharp breath. Deathmask cursed and looked murderous. Aphrodite, on the other hand, thrust a rose right into Aiolia's face. Aiolia's eyes widened in shock just a split second, then his eyes closed with sleep.

"Aphrodite!" Saga exclaimed.

"Let me take him," Aphrodite said, "I will reset his shoulders and clean the cuts." The Pisces's saint's beautiful face was distorted with grief, and his voice tight.

Saga said no more and allowed Aphrodite to take the child. Aphrodite glanced at him, then looked to Aiowyn standing there pale-faced, and said quietly, "We will be in the cockpit if you need us." With that he and Deathmask disappeared into the front of the plane. A few moments later, the plane slowly lifted. Its engines turned on in mid-air, and the plane shot forward like an arrow, away from Chile and no looking back.

Aiowyn stood there a few seconds looking uncertainly at Saga. Finally she said, "Thank you, Saga, thank you for everything."

"It's nothing," Saga said with an earnest smile, "I would give my life for you and Aiolia, sister. Come, let's go sit down. I believe the others were kind enough to leave us the first class seats."

They sat down in the empty first class compartment. Saga was ready to let all of his tensions go, but Aiowyn's uncertain voice suddenly asked, "Saga, forgive me for asking if I stepped on sensitive ground, but what… what happened to Aioros?"

At that name Saga's head exploded with pain. "Kill her, kill her!" A dark voice shouted inside him. "She knows; she will ruin everything! Kill those brats in the cockpit too!"

"No, no!" Saga screamed silently. "Don't hurt them!"

The voice laughed and roared, screaming without end. The pain in his head was threatening to split his skull open. Furiously he pulled at his hair, trying to drive away both the voice and the pain. He didn't even realize that he was now on his knees, shaking with torment.

"Saga, Saga!" Aiowyn cried, reaching for his hand. "Are you okay, Saga? I am sorry, Saga, I am so sorry, my precious! Don't say anything; forget that I even asked. Just say you are fine!"

Saga pulled away from her. "Don't touch me!" He said shrilly. He looked around desperately, and saw an automatic rifle that a prisoner took while fighting the guards lying on the aisle. Concentrating all his power, he made the rifle fly into Aiowyn's hands. "Check if it's loaded, and take the safety off." He commanded. Then seeing Aiowyn's bewildered face he added, "Please, sister, please!"

"I will do it!" Aiowyn complied, though her eyes were fixed with fear on Saga.

"Now put your finger on the trigger and point it to my heart." Saga said through gritted teeth. The voice inside him was now screaming with rage.

"Saga!" Aiowyn raised her voice. "Saga, no matter what you have done, I would never want you dead!" The rifle in her hands was still pointed downward.

"Please do it, sister!" Saga screamed. "I… I can't control myself sometimes! Please don't allow me to hurt you."

Swiftly Aiowyn lifted the rifle up and held it beneath her right arm. Her right index finger was on the trigger and she pulled close to Saga so the mouth of the rifle was jammed right into Saga. But her left hand reached out and cupped Saga's face. "Look at me, little one," She said, "Look into my eyes. You would never hurt anymore. You will not hurt anyone. Be calm, Saga, calm."

At her touch the voice inside Saga seemed to abate somewhat. Saga closed his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths. Concentrating all his willpower, he finally managed to drive away the voice completely, for the moment at least. He breathed out slowly, and opened his eyes. A smile lit up Aiowyn's beautiful face. "You did well, my precious," She said, "So can I throw away the rifle now?"

"No, no please don't!" Saga said hurriedly. "I… I can lose control!"

So Aiowyn did not move the rifle, only leaned back a little. For a moment she seemed to be pondering, at last she said hesitantly, "Saga, we don't have to talk if… if it's too much for you."

Saga was silent, but at last he shook his head. "No, let me tell you everything." He said. "You deserve to know, sister."

"I killed Aioros, sister," He said, "I framed him of a crime that I committed and ordered his execution."

Saga spoke of everything. He spoke of how he had always coveted the Grand Pope's crown and always believed that it was his; how Lord Shion's choice of Aioros as heir had bitterly disappointed and angered him; how his ambitious twin brother urged murder in return for power; how he had thrown his own brother into the cage beneath the sea to drown; how the small seed of evil had grown into an immortal demon that took over him.

"I couldn't silence the whispers anymore," He said, "It spoke to me every second and it was trying to move my body against my will. I knew I was going to lose eventually. That night… that night I thought I couldn't possibly do this anymore. I stole the holy dagger from underneath Lord Shion's seat and I tried to kill myself. I couldn't. Instead I lost completely and I had no control of my body left. I watched as my own hands killed Lord Shion, my own hands tried to kill the newborn goddess, and I listened as my own voice blamed my crime on Aioros ordered his execution. After it was all over I had my body back, though the voice, it kept taunting me and laughing at me. I… I didn't dare to try to kill myself again. I thought I would lose control again and hurt others."

The story finished. For a long while Saga stared at Aiowyn silently. Then he slowly, cautiously inched closer to Aiowyn until the mouth of the rifle was again jammed into his chest. "Please, sister," He said quietly, "While I still have control, pull the trigger. You deserve revenge and everyone else deserves safety."

Aiowyn tilted her head back a little and asked, "If I pull the trigger, will this evil be gone? Will it die with you instead of lodge within someone else?"

Saga was stunned by this question. Before he could say anything, Aiowyn went on asking, "If I pull the trigger, will Sanctuary be whole? There are only children left there now. Will they keep faith for the war that Sanctuary would eventually fight without their goddess, without their pope, and without even their big brother? If I pull the trigger, will the world be safe from whatever you should be fighting? Or will it be none of your concern any longer?"

Saga did not speak. He could not speak. His breath quickened, his mouth half open and his eyes startled and wide. He looked like a frightened child. Silent tears rolled down his marble carved face.

"I am sorry." Aiowyn said. She placed her left hand on the rifle as well and held it firmly. Mist was gathering in her brilliant green eyes. "Oh Saga, my child!" She exclaimed. "I know you hurt. I know what torment you are in. If you want me to end it, then I will. I spoke too harshly. You did the best you could and I cannot ask you to do more. You deserve peace. But Saga, if you want to assuage whatever damage this evil housed in you has done, you must stay alive. There is much you can do, Saga. It is your choice. Should I pull the trigger?"

So they stayed in that position for a long time, with the loaded automatic rifle between them. Finally Saga shook his head and said in a barely audible whisper, "No, sister."

Aiowyn unloaded the rifle and threw it away. She wrapped her arms around Saga and kissed the youth's white brow. "I will always be your sister, my child, no matter what." She murmured comfortingly, "I love you, Saga."

Saga said in a muffled voice, "I love you too, sister. Tell me what I must do. I want to do my part."

"You must… Compromise."

"Listen carefully, my child," She continued, "If there is an evil that you cannot defeat, then you must compromise with it. Watch, stay silent, save whatever you can. Do not provoke it and try do give it an opportunity to control your actions! Guard those children in Sanctuary, including my little brother, and raise them as a Grand Pope would. Look for your goddess quietly, but do not bring her back to the Sanctuary if you do not think she will be safe there. All of that is your responsibility now, my child. You must compromise with this evil, for now, Saga. One day when good is strong enough to enter your house again, you must be there to welcome her in."

Saga nodded, "I will do as you say, sister."

Aiowyn let loose a fey smile and she kissed Saga once more. "I have faith in you , Saga. I know your heart is good and pure. You will not disappoint me, I know."

"I will try my best." Saga said quietly.

Aiowyn smiled again, and she said, "I think I shall go fly this plane now, so you may make the same promise to two others that need it."

With that she left, and only moments later Deathmask and Aphrodite stepped into the compartment. For a moment Saga stared at them, conflicted and not knowing what to say. He had promised them his head, how could he tell them now that he wished to stay alive so he may do some good yet? Would they even believe him?

Yet contrary to what he feared, Aphrodite smiled at him sincerely and said, "I heard the entire conversation between you and Aiowyn. I believe you. I freely give you my alliance; I will help you, Saga. We shall triumph over this evil in you, eventually."

Deathmask was not smiling. The always grim Cancer saint simply said, "I trust you, Saga."

Finally, Saga allowed himself to smile, just a little.

Saga would live. He had a long road of atonement in front of him yet, and that road began with a compromise.

* * *

While this series is not technically finished, I am taking a long break from it. Perhaps I will add a trailer in a few days, but the new story will take a backseat for some other projects. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far! I am very thankful to know that those stories did entertain some people. Your reviews certainly made my day. So thanks again!


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